


The 12 Days Of Christmas

by AbigailKinney4life



Series: Christmas!Lock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hate to Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailKinney4life/pseuds/AbigailKinney4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's twelve days until Christmas and journalist John Watson is tasked with interviewing the esteemed detective Sherlock Holmes before he moves to America. There is only one problem. Sherlock is the most insufferable man John has ever met, and with preparing for Christmas and having to host a party for his family, John realises that this will certainly be a holiday to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - 14th December, 2014

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of it's characters, they belong to their respective owners. There isn't a real 'Westminster Herald' as far as I know and anything else I reference (products, Christmas songs ect) I do not own.
> 
> A/N: So this a festive JohnLock fic for Christmas time, it has twelve chapters (obviously) that'll be posted everyday in the run up to Christmas because I adore Christmas. I want to wish all my readers a very Merry Christmas and to all of you who don't celebrate or celebrate something different, I wish you the best of health and joy xxx
> 
> Warnings: Minor swearing, nothing really bad. Some minor sexually suggestive content with nothing explicit, mentions of drugs, underlying theme of crime/death. Just generally tried to get away from my dark, twisted side and write a fluffy festive fic.

John walked into the office of the Westminster Herald and grumpily dumped his coat onto his desk. He turned around when he saw his boss, Mr. Gregson, strolling towards him, looking like he didn't have a care in the world.

 _Alright for some_ , he thought to himself, but he dare not mention it.

"Sir, what did you call me in for?" John asked when Gregson approached him.

"Ah, John, good to see you." Classic Gregson, annoyingly cheery and avoiding all questions. He should have been a politician, not a newspaper editor.

"Sir?" John prompted again, in no mood to do this little dance.

"I have some work for you to do." Gregson explained.

John arched his eyebrow. "Work that couldn't wait until tomorrow? It's a Sunday."

"Yes, I know, John. But the event is tonight so it can't be avoided."

John squinted, not liking where this was going. "What event? What are you making me cover?"

"Tonight is the official honouring of Sherlock Holmes at the Metropolitan Police Station."

Oh no.

Sherlock Holmes, the Metropolitan detective that had been in and out of the news for a few years by now, famed for his impressive skills and the significant reduction of crime in the years in which he had been active. And a total arrogant prick.

"Why are they honouring Sherlock Holmes?" John asked. "Did he uncover another priceless lost painting or something?"

"No," Gregson explained, pursing his lips. "He's leaving, he's been offered a job at a top detective agency in New York." He told him with somewhat of an icy tone. Gregson was, of course, a bit of a fan girl for the great Sherlock Holmes. But then, most of Britain was as well.

Not John though, what everyone else saw as confident and flirty he saw as arrogant and irritating and he had been grateful he'd been able to avoid the detective in his journalism career. Up until now, that was.

"So you want me to go to this event and cover it?"

"And possibly get an interview with him."

John groaned internally. "Can't someone else do it?" He asked.

Gregson smiled at him. "Let's put it this way, if you value your job as a journalist, you'll cover this story."

John sighed, knowing that by all rights he should have been in bed in that moment. "Okay, fine, I'll do it. What time is the event?"

…

At 7 0 clock that evening, John Watson got out of a cab in front of the Metropolitan Police Station, straightening his tie. There was a police officer at the door who let John in, John thanked him awkwardly before walking inside the building and looking around momentarily for any sort of sign.

He saw a couple in evening wear walking down a corridor and began to follow them, not really caring if he looked subtle or not.

They all walked into a large room that John supposed was the break room, the room was filled with various people. A few John recognised from the papers and a few he didn't.

Sherlock Holmes was stood across the room talking to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. John carefully consulted the notes he had researched on Holmes in the slim folder he was carrying.

Of everything he had researched about the famed detective he could have filled a filling cabinet with, but he had picked the select few interesting bits and hastily stuffed them into his folder before setting off for the event.

He supposed if he had to get an interview with the detective now was the time to do it, he'd met Lestrade previously so he supposed he wouldn't mind him butting in quickly.

John strode confidently across the room towards the two men when he was cut off by two women walking in front of him and stopping dead centre, chatting excitedly.

Huffing to himself, John weaved around them only to find the two detectives gone.

He looked around for a moment until he heard the telltale squeaking of a microphone being turned on.

He swivelled to the other side of the room where he saw Lestrade tapping on the head of a microphone, Sherlock stood next to him with his hands behind his back, smiling sweetly.

John frowned and walked towards them, getting swallowed up by the crowd.

"Is this thing on?" Lestrade said into the microphone, his voice echoing loud and clear around the room, earning him a few good-natured chuckles.

"Err, anyway," he continued, "thank you all for coming tonight. As you all know, we are here to honour probably the best detective the force has ever seen, with the very sad notion that he will be leaving us soon; Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade gestured to Sherlock and moved away from the microphone, Sherlock walked forward and took his place. The crowd erupted into applause and John joined in half-heartedly, the detective was meant to be very perceptive after all, he might not want to give an interview to the one guy who didn't applaud him.

Didn't feed his ego, more like.

As John stared at the man, he ascertained that he looked pretty much the same as he did in all of his press photos. A black suit over a button shirt, black shoes polished to a gleam and a mass of semi-curly black hair that seemed beyond taming.

One thing about Sherlock Holmes that made him so amazing to the people of London was that he happened to be very attractive, even John had to admit it, and it certainly made him popular amongst the ladies, and the men too.

"Thank you," Sherlock's voice rang out, smile plastered across his face. "I really want to thank you all for all the help and support you've all given to me over the years, and I wouldn't have made it this far without you."

That earned him another round of applause.

"Nothing in New York could ever amount to what I have here in London and I will miss this fine city," he grinned, "but that won't stop me." Then he winked into the crowd, he actually winked and John felt his jaw tighten.

It was so plastered on and so fake, everything about this man and the confidence that oozed from him just confirmed how full of himself he was.

John found him insufferable and refused to believe that he was the only one who did.

Although, with the applause Sherlock received at his stupid little wink John supposed that he was wrong.

Lestrade stepped back to the microphone and began to make some long tribute, talking of how amazing Sherlock was and how his skills were unparalleled. John made some lazy notes he planned to thicken out in his article and watched Sherlock across the room, laughing with two women John had never seen before.

Of course he would be a womaniser, despite his famously single status.

John turned his face away when Sherlock touched one of the womens arms gently, feeling a little embarrassed.

After getting various opinions about Sherlock from around the room, all of which consisted of how humbled and perfect he was, John finally made his way to the esteemed detective himself, again in conversation with Lestrade and another man.

John stopped for a moment and took a deep breath, telling himself that the sooner he got the interview, which he would, then he could just write this thing and get on with the rest of his life.

He walked right up to Lestrade and Sherlock and immediately engaged them in conversation.

"Detective Inspector, so good to see you again." John said warmly, holding out his hand.

"Oh, John," Lestrade greeted, shaking his hand. "I didn't know you were here, Sherlock, this is John Watson, a journalist with the 'Westminster Herald.'"

Sherlock smiled at him and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you," he said in that insanely cheery voice.

John forced the smile to stay on his face. "And you, detective. I must say, I'm a big fan of your...work."

"You're too kind." Sherlock replied, looking mildly bored with the conversation already.

John ground his teeth together. "Err, if you're not too busy with packing and whatnot...perhaps you could give the Herald an interview?"

Sherlock glanced back at him, seemingly studying his face, John felt uncomfortable for a moment.

"Sherlock doesn't have to do any interviews," Lestrade smiled.

John looked at him, anything to get away from Holmes' scrutinising gaze. He'd known him to be all smiles before, he was unused to such intense concentration.

"No, it's fine." Sherlock said, John turned back to him to see the smile was back in place and the intense gaze gone. "You can come around to my flat tomorrow if you like, I have a little work to do there. I'll write the address down."

John smiled and thanked Sherlock profusely for the interview as he handed him a slip of paper with his address on it.

John quickly made some excuses about needing to finish an article before excusing himself.

He left the building as quickly as he could and called a cab. He couldn't understand why the great detective would give him an interview and not anyone else. He supposed that what Sherlock saw in John's face persuaded him.

Forcing it out of his mind, John climbed into the cab and went straight home. Reminding himself that it was still Sunday evening and he didn't even have to start thinking about this article until tomorrow.

John juggled his notes folder and his keys until he successfully opened the door to his flat. He immediately threw the folder onto the couch and loosened his tie. It was a nice little flat for what he could afford, and it was only him living there so it didn't cost too much to run.

He looked around his living room, making a mental note that he must put up his Christmas decorations sometime that week, before walking to the phone in the kitchen. He pressed the little voicemail button and shrugged out of his suit jacket, he hated suits.

"You have 1 new message," the computerised female voice rang out before a little beep.

"Hi John, it's mum." His mother's voice rang out from the phone. "I was just calling to ask if you were still up for hosting the family get together on Christmas day? And if you are, don't forget to under-buy on the alcohol, you know what Harry's like!"

The message ended and John smiled to himself, looking around the kitchen until he came across a pen. He quickly scrawled down "call mum" on the back of an envelope on the side.

He opened the fridge and grabbed a drink, before making his way to the living room and collapsing onto the couch.

John sighed to himself as he grabbed the remote and switched the TV on, there was some Christmas-y romantic comedy on that John quickly switched over.

He didn't need to watch a romance. Not now, not while he was all alone, at Christmas.

He looked around his empty flat once again, smiling sadly to himself.

A thought entered his mind that made him laugh.

"Ha. Maybe I'd have more friends if I was a famous detective."

…

Sherlock closed the door of 221B behind him, he hadn't even made it up the stairs when his phone went off.

He stopped in the middle of the stairs and leant against the wall, fishing his phone out from his coat pocket.

Irene Adler, one of the Met's top researchers. He answered immediately.

"Hey, Irene." He grinned.

"Sherlock," she greeted back, smile evident in her voice. "I'm not bothering you, am I?"

"No," Sherlock laughed, "I'm just out with some friends, sorry, the music is a little loud."

"Oh, I won't keep you then, party animal. Just wanted to let you know that Lestrade wanted you to have a little look in on one of his cases before you go."

"Sure, I'll check it out when I have the time."

"Great! Let me know when you're free, we can have a celebratory drink before you go."

"Sure thing, have a good night."

"You too, babe."

As soon as Irene hung up, Sherlock's face fell. He placed the phone back into his pocket and sighed to himself as he trudged up the stairs and opened the door to his flat.

His landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was pottering around cleaning various things despite her constant denial of being his housekeeper.

"I thought you weren't my housekeeper." Sherlock voiced, taking his coat off and throwing it on a nearby chair.

"You know, you should really put up some Christmas decorations!" She called from the kitchen, apparently choosing to ignore his comment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made his way to the kitchen. "No."

"It will help you get into the Christmas spirit," she pointed out, back to him.

"It's not really my thing." He told her, leaning against the door frame.

Mrs. Hudson turned to him and, taking in his neutral expression, smiled sadly at him. She walked over to him and put a hand on his cheek.

"It would be nice to see you happy for a change." She told him.

He smiled slightly at her, she took her hand away and stole out of the room.

When Sherlock heard the door shut, he walked to the living room and slumped down onto his chair.

He turned the TV on to catch the evening news but the picture that blared across the screen belonged to some generic romantic comedy.

Sherlock sighed to himself before turning the TV off. He reached across the coffee table and grabbed his laptop, opening it up.

Thinking that he might as well get some work done while he had some time.


	2. Day 2 - 15th December, 2014

John woke up early the next morning and went for a jog. As he stepped out of his flat he felt the cold air bite at him.

London's winter weather was threatening to come, already there were icy patches on the ground. John knew that in a few days the city would be blanketed with snow, he hoped it wouldn't cause too much destruction.

But, despite the cold, John had to admit that the frost did make the city streets look beautiful.

The darkness of the morning meant that the semi-illuminated Christmas lights cocooning the trees were still visible, giving the air a frosty blue hue.

John had always loved the Christmas lights in the streets, it was one of the reasons he loved London, the extravagance of it all. It made the entire city seem magical for one month of the year.

The minute he stepped back inside his flat he flung himself in the shower and shuddered under the warm spray.

Quickly drying himself and dressing, John grabbed his notes folder from where he had flung it last night and made the commute to his office.

He had to make a quick stop there for some files before he made his way to the home of Sherlock Holmes for his career defining interview.

John rolled his eyes as he walked into the headquarters for the 'Westminster Herald', he supposed that was the way the world worked, there would always be people like Sherlock Holmes around.

When he got to his desk, he began riffling through the papers scattered there when he heard footsteps. He looked up to see Sarah, a fellow journalist colleague of his, walking over to him.

Sarah had always been a little too friendly with John for his own liking, but he supposed as long as she didn't try anything with him there was no reason to have a problem with it.

She smiled as she walked up to him. "Hey, John."

"Hey, Sarah." John smiled. "What are you working on today?"

"Oh, top places to do Christmas shopping in London."

John pulled a face. "Oh, looks like you pulled the short straw."

She laughed. "And you pulled the long one, apparently. I heard you scored an interview with Sherlock Holmes today."

John wasn't sure that "scored" was the right word, considering all he had to do to get the interview was stand there and be stared at, but he agreed with her nonetheless.

"Oh, I'm so jealous." She exclaimed, grinning. "I'd love to do an interview with Sherlock Holmes, isn't he perfect?"

John rolled his eyes internally. "Yeah, yeah he is." He said, by way of sating her.

He retrieved the documents he was looking for.

"Ah, err, I've got to go."

"Yeah, no worries." Said Sarah. "Good luck!"

"Thanks," said John, giving her one last smile before walking past her and out of the building again.

In the cab, John checked the address he'd been given yesterday. 221B Baker street. He'd expected him to have nicer handwriting.

When he arrived at the building, he was shocked to see it was a flat and not some big house he expected a top detective to own.

Shrugging it out of his mind, he paid the cabbie and walked across the street, feeling the frost biting at his feet.

He rung the door bell and waited. After a few moments an ageing lady in a flowing purple dress opened the door.

"Yes, can I help you?" She asked.

"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes?" John informed her.

"Oh, yes, of course. Let me show you up." She smiled, standing back to let John through.

"He's just upstairs," she told him, ascending the staircase directly in front of the entrance. John followed.

She lead him into a smallish flat with bits of paper and science equipment strewn everywhere, John frowned to himself.

Upon arrival inside the flat, John heard the unmistakable sound of violin music and turned to see Sherlock Holmes stood by the window, softly playing.

"Sherlock." The lady called out.

Hearing her, Sherlock stopped playing and turned to her. Obviously not expecting to see John stood next to her.

"You have a visitor."

Sherlock quickly set aside the instrument and walked swiftly over to the pair, looking quite flustered. John had never seen him flustered before.

"Err, yes, of course, John. Please come in, sit down..."

"I'll make you some tea." The woman said.

Sherlock smiled at her and she left the room, leaving Sherlock and John alone.

The pair stood in awkward silence for a moment, John looked around the flat, unsure at what to say.

"So, you haven't put your decorations up either?" He tried, faking a small laugh.

"I don't much care for Christmas." Sherlock responded immediately, voice devoid of much emotion.

"Really?" Asked John, a little taken aback at this sudden mood change.

"Oh," said Sherlock, like he was finally realising himself. "No, I, I didn't mean that. I love Christmas, who doesn't?" He grinned at John and John nodded back, a little thrown.

"Um, so anyway, thank you for letting me interview you..."

"Oh, not a problem. Anything for the fans. Have a seat." He gestured to a chair and John sat down gratefully, Sherlock sat opposite him. Apparently fixed now on his usual brazen confidence, John must have caught him at an off moment.

"So, Mr. Holmes," he began, taking out a notepad and pen and trying to remember some of the questions he was supposed to be asking. "What made you accept this job in America?"

Sherlock made a steeple of his fingers in front of his face and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, there are a million opportunities for someone like me over there. A chance to spread my wings and help the public on a more widespread scale."

John jotted down the answer. _Right, you are answering a question, not running for Miss. World._

"And have you enjoyed your time at the Met?" He asked, looking down at his notepad to stop himself from looking at Sherlock Holmes and his bizarrely penetrating eyes.

"Oh, certainly. I've never met a nicer group of people or a more hard working staff, to be honest, the Met is my whole life."

John nodded, still staring at his paper. "And will you miss London?"

There was a slight pause.

"I love London, the city is almost alive with it's people and it's riches, I'll sorely miss it when I leave."

John's pen hesitated for a moment. Sherlock's tone seemed to have completely changed, even his voice sounded different when he spoke. John felt, for the first time since he had spoken to him, like he was finally talking to a real human being. He looked up to the detective, who was still staring at him.

"Then...why are leaving if you love it here so much?" He asked tentatively.

And all of a sudden, that semblance of humanity was gone. Sherlock grinned at him. "Because there are too many opportunities to pass up by just staying here." He answered smoothly.

John felt the anger in his chest and resisted the urge to sigh.

"When is your flight?" He asked quickly, trying to change the subject. If he got anymore smooth talking from Sherlock Holmes he would scream, he was a journalist, not some woman Sherlock was trying to seduce.

"The 21st." He answered.

John was taken aback for a moment. "What, of December?"

"Yes."

John looked around the flat, aside from the clutter, it looked pretty lived in to him.

"Well, that's fairly quick. It doesn't look like you've started packing yet."

"Don't worry," Sherlock informed him, presenting him with a big smile. "I can do it in time."

Sherlock's presence angered John generally, but right now he felt mocked. He felt like Sherlock was mocking him simply by smiling at him.

"Yes, because you're so perfect." He said sarcastically under his breath, scribbling onto his notepad.

"Excuse me?"

_Shit_.

John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him, no emotion betraying his features.

"Um, I was talking to myself." John told him, hoping to God Sherlock would just let it go.

Sherlock lent forward. "Mr. Watson, I am one of the most astute minds of the 21st century, nothing gets past me."

There was something slightly menacing in Sherlock's tone but John didn't feel intimidated. In fact, he felt his irritation grow.

"Yes, we all know you're clever, Sherlock. You don't have to keep pointing it out, it just makes you sound arrogant."

Sherlock froze, shocked into silence.

Realising his mistake, John began to panic. "Oh God, I...Mr. Holmes, I don't know what came over me, I'm so so sorry..."

"No, no it's...fine." Sherlock told him slowly, voice light. "It's not often I get honesty like that." Sherlock wasn't looking at him, he was simply staring.

John had never felt more uncomfortable or more embarrassed in his entire life.

"Oh, I'm so sorry...I should...go." With that, John gathered up his notes folder and his notepad and raced from the room.

He stopped momentarily in the doorway and stole a glance back to Sherlock, but he was still staring into the distance, like John had put him into a trance.

Going red, John jogged down the stairs and out of the building.

Sherlock sat in his chair, unsure how to process what had just happened. Hadn't he just, five seconds ago, claimed to be the most astute mind of the 21st century? He laughed at himself.

"Hoo hoo, I've brought..." Began Mrs. Hudson, walking into the sitting room with a tea tray. She stopped in her tracks when she realised that it was only Sherlock sitting there.

"Oh, where is your journalist friend?" She asked, looking around the room like she was expecting to find John hidden behind one of the doors.

"He left," said Sherlock, folding his hands in his lap.

"Oh, interview over so quick?"

"No." Sherlock admitted, forehead creasing. "I think John Watson is different."

…

The minute John got back to his desk he sat down and took 3 long, deep breaths. He hoped to God the incident would be forgotten, this was the sort of shit he could get fired over. But not now, he couldn't get fired now.

_It's okay, you're not going to get fired. Sherlock wasn't angry._

No, Sherlock wasn't angry, he was...

John shook his head, trying to force the incident out of his mind.

He opened his laptop and took his notes from his notes folder and laid them out on his desk.

Taking another deep breath, he began to type.

_The esteemed detective Sherlock Hol_

_...Sherlock Holmes, London's most..._

_Sherlock Holmes, BRITAIN'S most..._

_...The famous detective, Sherlock Holmes..._

_...Sherlock Holmes..._

_...Sherlock Holmes..._

John slammed his laptop shut and let his face fall into his hands. Never before in his entire career had he done something so unprofessional all because of his own personal, unfounded allegations.

He straightened up and promised himself to never let that get in the way of his work again.

John couldn't bear to think about his embarrassing error at that moment, so instead he pulled out a fresh piece of paper and began to make a first draft list of all the things he would need to get in for the Christmas party he had to host.

After a while, John began to forget about his incident with Sherlock Holmes and began pricing up his Christmas list.

He couldn't help snickering at how ridiculous a concept it was to try and cram his entire family and family friends into his tiny flat, and how his mother would endeavour to fix him up with every single girl he wasn't related to.

John laughed out loud. "Mum will faint if she finds out both of her kids are gay."


	3. Day 3 - 16th December, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing grumpy/sarcastic!John has given me life...

John watched as Gregson came strolling into the office holding a letter in one hand.

"Chaps, can I have your attention, please?"

John rolled his eyes, counting at least four females in the room.

"We've just received a letter from the Metropolitan police."

John ducked his head behind his laptop. _We are writing to inform you that John Watson insulted Sherlock Holmes and must be put to death..._

"It's an invitation to their Christmas party on the 21st of December!" There were various cheers and murmurs from around the room and a loud groan from John.

Another fun party at the Met.

"Alright, back to work." Gregson said before disappearing into his office.

John shook his head and went back to this laptop.

He looked up to see Sarah suddenly by his side, he nearly jumped.

"So this is exciting, a party at the Met. Although I have nothing to wear...Ooh, I might get to meet Sherlock!"

"I doubt it," John said, hoping to stop the waves of infantile infatuation before they drowned him. "His flight is leaving that day, he mentioned it yesterday."

"Oh." Sarah's face fell.

Gregson's door opened again and he walked out of his office and up to John's desk. It was like meet and greet day all of a sudden.

"John!" Gregson greeted all too cheerily. "How is the Sherlock Holmes article coming?"

"Fine." John lied with a smile on his face, despite the fact that he hadn't even looked at it since yesterday.

Gregson nodded. "On a serious note, John. I'm really impressed with you, I know you didn't want to do the article but the fact that you've knuckled down and really put your all into it...I'm really grateful for it."

"Oh, thank you." Said John, a little taken aback.

"Who knows, there might be a raise in it for you." He winked before walking away.

"Wow." Said Sarah,sounding surprised. "A raise, that's great."

"Yeah," John echoed, suddenly feeling rather good about himself.

"Maybe that's the way to make this job easier, to play to the boss a little bit."

"Always been my motto." Sarah smiled before walking back to her desk.

John smiled to himself as he looked back to this laptop. He did love being a journalist, and he was a good one. He could do this, he knew he could.

He opened up the document containing the beginnings of his Sherlock article and began rereading his notes, making a new start on the whole thing.

…

Sherlock bent down and pulled out his magnifying glass, examining the arm of the dead woman found in a field in Greenwich.

_6 possible theories..._

The wound on the arm was...

"Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up, broken out of his mind palace trance. He saw Lestrade standing above him,looking grim.

"Lestrade?" He asked.

"It's the family, they're here." He said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What, they couldn't wait until we'd moved the body?"

"They were a little insistent. Will you talk to them?"

Sherlock sighed, feeling the annoyance manifesting into a headache, scratching at the side of his skull.

"Sherlock, don't forget about your reputation..." Lestrade sounded a little pained as he said it, like he didn't want to force Sherlock into it. Sherlock stood immediately.

"It's okay, I'll go. Examine her for me."

Lestrade smiled gratefully and knelt down beside the body.

Sherlock didn't want to make his job any harder than it had to be, but he still couldn't escape the annoyance of having to leave a corpse right in the middle of an investigation in order to console a family that by all rights shouldn't have even been there. He was sure they had people for that.

He ducked under the police tape and stepped out into the closed-off road, popping his collar against the icy chill.

He saw a family of one man and two teenage children stood with an officer who was obviously trying to console them.

Sherlock walked up them and before he could even get a word in, the husband said, "Mr. Holmes! Can we see her?"

_No, because she's a slowly rotting corpse in a field of cow dung and it will emotionally scar your children._

"I'm afraid that's impossible at the moment, I think it will be a little unsavoury." Sherlock gave him his best sympathetic look as he spoke. "But you'll be able to see her after we've gone through the proper channels."

The man nodded and hugged his children closer. "Do you know how she died?"

"I'm afraid our investigations haven't gotten that deep yet,"he said compassionately, "but, rest assured, I'm on the case, and I will get to the bottom of it."

_Actually, I don't have the foggiest._

The man nodded through his tears, smiling gratefully. "Thank you , I'm so glad you're on the case."

Sherlock gave them all a sympathetic smile. "I'm so sorry for you loss. Especially at this time of year." He tagged on before leaving them with the officer and walking back to Lestrade.

Why was being nice so exhausting? He'd taken on this case when he was supposed to be focused on leaving, they could have a least let him get on with it.

Despite how busy he'd been, however, he still couldn't manage to get John Watson's words out of his head. How his confidence made him sound arrogant. But that family just then hadn't thought he was arrogant, they had liked him.

But then he remembered that they didn't really like him, because they didn't really know him. All they knew was his 'reputation'.

He reached Lestrade again and lent down to examine the body, this was very odd, the way she was left out like this...his mind again was drawn to the clean wound on her arm...

"It's sad, isn't it?" Lestrade interrupted again. "Her dying at Christmas."

"I suppose," said Sherlock, unsure of how to respond. "To be honest, I'm finding it hard to get into the Christmas spirit." He gestured to the body in front of him.

"Yeah,"Lestrade agreed. "Look, thank you for helping me, I know you're busy."

Sherlock's mind was brought back to his full flat and all the none-packing he had done, and again to John Watson's words. He was a journalist, of course he would have had some insight into the way Sherlock lived. He should have realised it before.

"It's okay, Greg. Really. It's why I'm a detective, to help people. There's no schedule."

They remained silent for a long moment as Sherlock began to examine the body's hair follicles.

"The thing about Christmas spirit is that it's not really about the holiday, it's about the people you're with." Said Lestrade randomly, very successfully reminding Sherlock that he was leaving behind the only people he vaguely cared about in England.

"But I'm sure you'll meet loads of great people in New York." He quickly tagged on, sounding uneasy,

Sherlock sighed, watching the steam from his breath rise in front of him.

…

It was nearly the end of the day and John had already steam rollered through half of his article which was pretty good for a days work. But he was working with a renewed vigour for his love of the job, for the fact that a simple article might alleviate him above and beyond his position now.

John thought that nothing could break his stride now. He was just describing the way the Met's black and silver Christmas decorations gave the entire establishment a touch of class when his mobile went off.

Because nearly everyone in the office had gone home by now, John took the phone from his jacket pocket and answered, sighing to himself.

"Hello?" He asked, staring at the words on the screen. The black font was making his vision blurry.

"Hello, darling. It's mummy."

"Oh, hi mum."John greeted, trying to sound as happy as possible, completely in the knowledge that if he even so much as sounded down his mother would tell him it was because he was single and then proceed to set him up on some blind date he'd never attend.

"How are you, sweetheart?" She asked.

John loved his mum, he really did, but she did have an incredible habit of calling at the most unfortunate times. It was like a sixth sense.

"I'm fine." He replied. "Just working on an article."

"Oh, this close to Christmas?"She asked, sounding worried.

"Yeah," John agreed, "tell me about it. I don't see how they expect me to bang out a full two-page spread on Sherlock Holmes in a week."

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes...?"

John's eyes widened. _Oh mum, not you, too._

"Is that the nice detective who is always in the news for being so clever?"

"Yes." John replied quickly.

He heard his mother tut. "Oh, I always feel sorry for him."

John's brow furrowed. "What? Why? He's got everything."

"Yes but imagine being a police man and a celebrity at the same time? That must be hard, trying to get all of your work done with people hounding you for your autograph..."

"Well, it seems like he can handle it."

"Yes...well, enough about work, honey. I called for a couple of reasons. The first was that I was just checking in about the family get together, to make sure if you were okay to host it."

"Oh!" John exclaimed. "I got your message, I totally forgot to call you back, sorry. Yeah, I'm fine with doing that, I've got a list and everything."

"Well, just as long as you're sure."

John laughed. "Mum, I'm a grown man, I can handle one party."

His mother chuckled. "I know you are, sweetheart, and you make me so proud. That leads me on to the other thing..."

"Yeah?"

"You remember Margaret from down the street?"

"Yes." _Let me guess, her successful young daughter has just come to town and is just dying to meet me._

"Well, her daughter, Phyllis, has just come down to stay for the Christmas holidays, I was speaking to her today, she's a columnist so you already have so much in common. She's dying to meet you."

John grimaced. He knew it was coming but he didn't think it would be word for word. "I don't know if I'll get the chance to say hi," he began, trying to sound disappointed. "I'm a bit busy over the holidays, especially with this party and everything..."

"That's a great idea, why don't I invite her and her mother to the party?"

"Oh, umm..." John tried to quickly search his brain for some excuse but could think of nothing. "Sure, that sounds great."

Stupid brain.

"Wonderful, I'll call them now. Ooh, I'm so excited."

John laughed with her until he said goodbye quickly and hung up.

He stared at the article in front of him, trying not to allow himself to get annoyed at the conversation that had just taken place. _It's your own fault, if you just told her you like men she'd stop setting you up with women. Although, she'd probably just start setting you up with men..._

John shook his head, trying to clear away the mental image that thought had just conjured up, before going back to his article.

He sighed to himself, his mind had gone blank.

"Hey, John. Time to go." Sarah said, walking over to him. He hadn't even known she was still there.

"Oh," he said, looking up and giving her a small smile. "Right, yeah, of course." There was really no point in staying now that he'd forgotten what words were.

Sarah hesitated for a moment. "Listen, I was wondering, we've been working hard lately, I was just wondering that if you're not busy tomorrow night, why don't we go for a Christmas drink? You know, to celebrate getting off work and...just as friends."She quickly clarified, not sounding too confident.

John smiled to himself, sure that she was only back on him because she knew she wasn't going to meet Sherlock Holmes now.

He looked up at her, fully intending to turn her down politely until he saw her expectant face staring at him.

"Okay," he said finally, "okay, one drink. I guess I need to start getting into the Christmas spirit, anyway."


	4. Day 4 - 17th December, 2014

John took a sip of his pint and looked around the pub Sarah had selected. He had never been here before, it was quite large and there was an elaborately decorated Christmas tree in every corner. The sound system was blearing out Slade and John found himself bobbing his head to it. He was actually feeling quite festive tonight. It was Christmas, his article was halfway there. Things were good.

"So," began Sarah, drinking her glass of wine quite quickly. "Am I dragging you away from your girlfriend?" She asked, grinning.

John found himself cringing internally. He felt bad, mainly because Sarah was such a nice person. He didn't necessarily flirt back with her but he had no idea how he was supposed to turn her down without coming out and without lying and he refused to lie t0 her.

But then he refused to come out, as well. It wasn't like he had anything against coming out, he certainly wasn't scared of anyone's reactions he just didn't think it was anyone's business and he couldn't really see the point of telling his family until he got a boyfriend.

Which was looking like never.

"Err, no." He admitted, smiling. "Just me."

"Oh, at Christmas?" She asked rhetorically with an exaggerated frown.

"Yeah," he said, "how about you?" He asked quickly.

She shook her head. "No, just me as well."

He nodded, unsure how to respond without making it sound like he was coming onto her.

"Well, I'm sure we'll find someone."

Wrong move. She looked up to him from under her eyelashes and John felt himself go red.

It wasn't just because she was a woman and it wasn't just because she was flirting with him, he was just generally bad with people.

He should have just stayed at the office.

…

Sherlock was gathering his various notes from his desk and as he turned around to go home he found himself face to face with Irene Adler, the flirty researcher at the Metropolitan.

"Irene." He greeted politely, hoping he could get past her quickly and get home.

"Come out for a drink with us." She instructed rather than asked, much was her way. "To celebrate before you leave."

"Oh," Sherlock laughed, plastering his biggest smile on his face when in reality he was fairly tired. "I'd love to but I've got a lot of...packing...to do..."

Irene walked closer to him and Sherlock felt more like he was being stalked than approached. He had often found his mind wondering what would happen between the two of them if he hadn't been...

"I could get Molly to finish the post mortem on the dead woman for tomorrow morning." She said slowly.

Sherlock's face lit up with genuine emotion. "Seriously?"

She nodded. "Yeah, then you can have a chance to look at it before you leave, I know it's been bugging you."

"Thank you, Irene. That would mean a lot to me."

"What would really persuade me to ask her would be a little drink..."

Sherlock stood up a little straighter. "You continually impress me, Miss. Adler." He told her, letting a little of his real feelings shine through. His genuine admiration instead of his usual questionable one, he was sure she could tell the difference.

But if she did, she didn't let on, she merely smiled at him.

Sherlock exaggeratedly rolled his eyes. "Okay, one drink."

He couldn't pass up an opportunity to look at the dead woman before he left. It wasn't like him to leave a case in the middle.

…

15 minutes of being sat with Lestrade, Molly and Irene and joining in with the festive atmosphere and Sherlock was already ready to kill everyone in the pub. He was sure his tolerance was a lot lower than it used to be, he supposed he was getting too old for this kind of thing.

Lestrade began talking about the insane prices he'd spent on his present shopping and Irene joined in with her own anecdote, Molly complained that she had barely gotten anything done yet and Sherlock, who had done nothing, had nothing to say on the subject so didn't join in the conversation.

With everyone sufficiently distracted with their own conversations, he began to look around the all too festive pub, analysing things without even meaning to.

Quite by accident, he spotted the journalist, John Watson, sitting at the bar with a woman and found himself analysing him, also.

He put it down to the fact that, at heart, he was still the consulting detective he'd been before he got his job at the Met and he always deduced everything, but he knew that he had been unable to get the journalist out of his head since their interview on Monday.

_Your confidence makes you sound arrogant..._

No one had ever said anything like that to him before, it wasn't a response he had ever got from anyone.

He found it slightly odd that they had happened across the same pub but Sherlock Holmes had never believed in coincidences, as the universe was rarely so lazy.

He immediately deduced that the woman John was sitting with was not his wife, or even his girlfriend.

In fact, the poor man looked like he was squirming away from being flirted with. Sherlock found himself smiling, sending a sideways glance to Irene. It wasn't unlike his own situation.

He knew he should just leave him to it, he was sure John didn't want to see him again and it was none of his business, but still he found himself walking over to the pair of them, drink abandoned at the table.

John watched in shock as Sherlock Holmes seemed to appear from no where and saunter up to them, for a moment he thought he was imagining it until he watched Sarah go bright red and realised that he must have really been there.

He prayed to God that he didn't blush too as the memory of their interview swam back to him.

But, apparently, whether John looked like a tomato or not mattered not because the detective pretty much ignored John completely and monopolised Sarah's attention.

"Hi, Sherlock Holmes." He said, and John could hear that same cockiness in his voice.

"I'm...Sarah." Sarah said, voice shaking.

John felt sorry for her, something about Sherlock's attention made everyone feel like a fool, even John.

"So, what do you do, Sarah?" Sherlock asked, voice dripping with lustiness.

John found the annoyance grow within him, but the most annoying thing was just how receptive Sarah seemed to the treatment.

"Oh, I'm a journalist."

"Oh..."

John wished he could see their faces but then he supposed Sherlock's voice was infuriating him enough.

"It's a shame they didn't give _you_ the article about me, we could have had an interview..."

John suddenly heard the loud scraping of a bar stool on the floor and Sarah was stood, face red.

"Um, I should go," she said, "really. Um. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. John..." With that, she walked out of the pub quickly.

John stared after her for a moment, unsure what had just happened.

John turned to Sherlock, ready to question him on what he had obviously missed until he saw Sherlock was already looking at him, sporting a small smile.

_Sherlock's attention made everyone feel like a fool..._

"Did you just intimidate her to get me off the hook?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded at him and John's eyes widened.

"Wha...how did you know what was going on?"

Sherlock didn't answer and John suddenly remembered his words from the other day.

"Oh, I get it. Nothing gets passed you." Sherlock smiled again, like he didn't trust his voice. John frowned internally, that wasn't like the uber-confident man who'd just flirted furiously with his colleague.

"T...thanks." John said a little tentatively after a moment, unsure of what else he should say. Why would Sherlock do that? It was a little uncouth but the whole reason was to help him out of an awkward situation.

Why would he even want to help him after the way he'd insulted him the other day?

"You're welcome." Sherlock replied, voice so significantly deeper and yet softer than John had previously heard that he was unsure if it actually belonged to the same person.

What was going on?

The pair lapsed into silence, Sherlock was aware that now was the time normal people would bid farewell and go back to their own friends but for some reason he wasn't moving.

John could feel the tension too. Deciding to try and break it, he said, "so, what are you doing here if you don't like Christmas?" He asked, vaguely gesturing to the elaborately decorated pub with the loud Christmas music.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about? I love Christmas, I told you so."

John raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm a journalist, Mr. Holmes, some stuff doesn't get passed me either."

Annoyingly defeated, Sherlock sighed. "My colleagues dragged me out. They think I love Christmas, I'm just making sure they have a good time."

John frowned. "Why don't you just tell them the truth?"

Sherlock froze for a second until he immediately turned on his heel and stalked away from John, closing his eyes and cursing himself for being so open.

John was taken aback by Sherlock's sudden action and sat back down again, now without a drinking partner.

Then, as he thought about the encounter, he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. What happened to that cocky, arrogant man from all the press conferences and the conversation with Sarah? Why had he suddenly seemed so normal when he was talking to John? He'd seemed shy, even. Kind, even.

Shaking his head, John drained his glass and headed out into the cold night air, making sure to keep his head down so he didn't make eye contact with Sherlock as he left.

Sherlock watched John leave, eyes purposefully down to avoid him, he was sure. Sherlock shook his head to himself, he shouldn't have gone over there, now he just felt guilty.

_Get a grip, idiot._ He admonished himself. _You can't risk your whole reputation for one man who doesn't even like you. Who doesn't even_ fake _-like you._

"So, Irene," he began, before he could talk himself out of it. "What are your Christmas plans?"

Irene turned to him, smile fixed in place.

"Well..." She began, and Sherlock prepared himself for a long night.

…

And a long night it had been.

Sherlock let his head hit the back of the closed door of 221B as he sighed loudly to himself.

He dreaded taking his phone out of his pocket to check the time, he had certainly been out later than he had wanted.

Rubbing his eyes to fight off the fatigue, Sherlock ascended the stairs to his flat and dumped his coat and scarf on his chair before walking towards his bedroom door.

"Sherlock, I've brought you some food!" He heard Mrs. Hudson call out from the stairs.

Sherlock turned on his heel to see Mrs. Hudson walk into the room holding a tray. He rolled his eyes.

"No thanks," he said, "I'm knackered, I'm just going to sleep."

"Sherlock," she admonished, putting the tray on the coffee table and busying herself with with hanging up Sherlock's coat. "When was the last time you ate?" Her voice held conviction, because she knew about Sherlock's eating habits. Or lack thereof.

"Err..." Sherlock cast his mind back to his surprisingly bleak last couple of days. "Err, yesterday, I think."

She shook her head. "You need to eat, Love. Otherwise you'll get sick, you know you will. Then you'll be useless at your job."

He tilted his head to the side, cursing how much Mrs. Hudson knew him.

"Okay, fine." He yielded, walking to the coffee table. Mrs. Hudson hid a smile as she watched him plonk himself down on his chair and uncover the tray of tea and sandwiches she'd prepared.

She did worry about Sherlock sometimes. He was so phenomenally clever that sometimes he forgot the little things, like Einstein...and with all the energy he put into being cheery at work...

"Thank you." Sherlock said suddenly from his chair.

She walked over to him and sat in the seat opposite, not entirely sure why there was even one there.

"You're welcome." She replied. "So," she continued after a moment as Sherlock ate. "Why were you out so late?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Irene Adler dragged me out for a farewell drink, and..." he momentarily thought about telling her about what he'd done for John Watson but decided against it. "And it was really tedious."

Mrs. Hudson grinned. "I've always wondered if anything would happen between you and Irene."

Sherlock grimaced, eating a bit of sandwich. "I doubt it," he said, mouth full. "Doesn't matter anyway, with America and everything."

"Yeah..."

Sherlock heard her trail off and fell silent.

"I am going to miss you, you know." She said lightly after a moment.

Sherlock subtly glanced up to her and saw she had tears peaking at the corners of her eyes. He suddenly felt extremely guilty, and strangely alone.

"I hope you find someone out there who'll force you to eat and drink every other week." She laughed, but Sherlock could tell that she was concealing the pain of losing him.

He laughed back, feeling just as hurt.


	5. Day 5 - 18th December, 2014

John's laptop was sat open at his desk, the screen at half-light from the amount of time John hadn't touched the keyboard.

He was staring intently at his half-finished article, fully aware that if he had just stayed in the office last night then he would have had it finished by now.

But how was he supposed to finish it now? How was he supposed to finish an article about a man he didn't even fully understand himself?

For the most part, Sherlock Holmes seemed to be exactly the kind of man John had always thought him to be: arrogant, conceited, self-absorbed.

But John couldn't help feeling like there was something deeper to him, some part of himself he was hiding for a reason John couldn't figure out.

He was a journalist, he couldn't help noticing these things, and he knew he couldn't just write an article based on a lie despite how little time he had to complete it. It wasn't his style and he wouldn't forgive himself for it, especially if he got a promotion out of it.

John watched sullenly as his laptop screen went black.

…

Sherlock was bent over the morgue-table that was holding the dead woman, now identified as Eileen Bailey. As promised, Molly had finished the post mortem and was currently reading the results out to him.

"So I found a high level of tetanus in her blood, that's what killed her. She probably stabbed herself with a needle whilst walking or might have even just scraped herself on some infected brambles, it's happened before."

Sherlock straightened up and frowned. "I don't think so," he admitted, "the wound is too deep and too clean for her to have gotten accidentally, and why would she be in field?"

Molly shrugged. "I don't know. No one just injects themselves with tetanus, Sherlock. It's going down as accidental death."

Every fibre in Sherlock's body was shouting WRONG, his frown deepened.

"You know, maybe you should be focusing more on leaving than on this, I'm sure you've got a lot to do."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "It's not really my style." He admitted.

She smiled back. "Yeah."

They looked at each other for a few moments until Molly suddenly moved away, shrugging off her lab coat.

"I'm going to head out for a bit, I'm sorely low on all my Christmas shopping." She informed him.

"Okay, see you in a bit." He said, going back to Eileen Bailey.

Sherlock felt Molly hesitate by the door, as if expecting him to say more. After a moment, she left and Sherlock still hadn't taken his mind off of the body.

The more he thought on it, the more it occurred to him that it must be hard to lose someone this way, especially at Christmas. And especially if the death did turn out to be a murder as he was very much suspecting it was.

He supposed he should really be concentrating on leaving, it was the big thing of the hour and he really just wished he could get it over and done with.

Sighing to himself, Sherlock checked his watch. He supposed he had some time to head to the high street.

Stepping out into the frosty air, Sherlock was forced to button his coat against the cold.

It was already dark out despite the fact it wasn't that late in the day. Sherlock hated Winter.

He looked around himself for a moment, wondering exactly where people went to buy luggage.

…

John sorely wished he hadn't left his Christmas shopping so late. He did this every year, he put everything off and then a week to Christmas he would start freaking out. He always assumed he would have learnt by the next year but he never did.

He wouldn't have minded if Christmas shopping was easy, he hadn't even begun to buy in the food and drink he'd need for the Christmas party he was supposedly hosting on Christmas day, but he couldn't think about that right now. His current dilemma was Harry. What on Earth was he supposed to get his sister for Christmas? She had never been particularly blokey or girly so he couldn't go for classic smellies or chocolates, not that he liked giving impersonal gifts like that anyway.

John walked into a superstore, hoping that the vast array of items would give him more inspiration.

John had just happened to be passing the home section when he spotted Sherlock Holmes, bent over examining various suitcases like he would examine a crime scene.

Sherlock looked up just in time that he caught John's eye before he could turn away and then the pair were staring at each other.

Even though neither particularly wanted to speak to the other, common society dictated that now they must.

Cursing himself, John walked forward, trying to think of anything he could say that wouldn't make the awkward situation they were in any worse.

"I cannot believe you still haven't packed yet." He said when he reached the suitcases, hyper-aware that Sherlock was still staring at him.

"I...umm," began Sherlock, a little shocked at the sudden appearance of John Watson. "I was, I've just been a little preoccupied with this mysterious death of a woman..." Sherlock quickly found himself and realised he was doing it again. Not only was he releasing classified information to a citizen, a _journalist_ , he also happened to be being too damn open with John Watson _again_.

"I'm very busy." He quickly clarified by walking away.

Again shocked by Sherlock's very sudden change of attitude, John's brain swam for a moment until everything came back into focus again.

"Wait!" He called, jogging after the detective. Sherlock stopped and turned to him, expression unreadable.

"If you're not too busy, I thought we could grab a coffee?"

Sherlock frowned deeply, immediately caught of guard by the sudden, random request. "Why would you want to grab coffee with me?" He asked, his tone wasn't accusing it was simply very, very confused.

John wasn't sure why, however, people never stopped flirting with him.

_Accept you're not flirting with him_ , he reminded himself, _you happen to be a very irritating journalist who insults him every time you see him._

John had no idea how he was supposed to respond to Sherlock's question. How could he tell him that he wanted to spend more time with him because he wanted to figure out exactly who the man in front of him was? And not so he could print it, so he could put his mind at ease.

"I...need more for my article." He lied quickly, brain giving him the idea. "Our last interview was cut a little...short."

Sherlock stared at him for the longest time with that same deductive gaze he'd given him on the first night they'd met, however, just like then, his features softened. "Okay, then." He said slowly.

…

John nursed the warm coffee in front of him, tugging off his gloves. He spied Sherlock's leather gloves, he couldn't imagine they would be very warm.

He could see that the tip of Sherlock's pale nose was reddening at the cold.

"I hope I don't get a cold." John said suddenly, voicing the first thing that came into his head. He tapped the side of the wooden table twice. "Touch wood." He said quickly.

Sherlock internally rolled his eyes, he wanted to tell John that touching wood was a ridiculous superstition and he really was above it, but he decided that having a go at someone who was writing an article about him probably wasn't the cleverest idea he'd ever had.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed instead. "I don't generally catch colds."

"Touch wood." Said John, inclining his head towards the table.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't need to, it's ridiculous."

John simply stared at Sherlock.

After a moment, Sherlock sighed to himself and quickly tapped the table with the pad of his finger once. John smiled before hiding it quickly.

The pair sat in silence for a moment, John busied himself with his coffee, wishing he took sugar so he had time to think of something to say.

"So..." Began Sherlock finally, causing John to look up. "How are your...Christmas plans coming along?"

John blinked a couple of times. Sherlock talking about Christmas? He really must have felt awkward.

"Fine." He nodded. "Yeah, fine. I'm leaving things pretty late this year, though."

Sherlock nodded, unsure with how to respond.

They fell into silence again.

"One thing I don't like about Christmas," John said, "is family. I mean, I love my family but I hate having them all pushed in together, getting pissed...it's embarrassing."

Sherlock gave him a hint of a smile. "It makes me glad I'm not close with mine, I don't have to go through that."

"Have you said goodbye to them yet?"

"No."

John blinked a few times. "Well, maybe you should." He said boldly. "I'll expect you'll come to regret it if you don't see them in a long time."

Sherlock looked across the small table at him and John mentally prepared himself for the smart-arse response he was about to receive.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right." Sherlock agreed, visibly deflating.

John was taken aback.

"They're not happy about me going," Sherlock continued. "They want me to stay."

John spoke tentatively, fully aware that anything he said could trigger one of Sherlock's mood changes.

"Can you stay?" He asked. "I mean, if you wanted to, do you still have your job?"

Sherlock nodded minutely. "Yes. But like I said before, it would look bad if I passed up such an opportunity."

It was exactly what he had before, but not the way he had said it. Before he'd seemed so confident like moving to America was the be all and end all but now, he said it like an actor tiredly repeating a line for the 100th time to an unhappy director.

"Don't take this the wrong way or anything," John began slowly, looking sympathetic. "But it really doesn't sound like you want to go."

"There may be an element of truth to that." Sherlock admitted quietly after a moment.

He cast his eyes to John's and blinked a couple of times. "Don't print that?" He asked lightly and John found himself taken aback by the innocence of the question.

He shook his head. "I wont." He assured him with a small smile.

Sherlock smiled tentatively in return, hearing every voice in his head telling him that he couldn't trust John Watson despite the fact that his gut told him he could. He could hear every voice telling him to leave, telling him to run.

He stayed.


	6. Day 6 - 19th December, 2014

The first thing that greeted John when he woke up the next morning was the cold biting at every inch of exposed skin.

Shuddering, John pulled the covers closer around himself but that did little.

He'd told Sherlock the thing he hated most about Christmas was family but right now it was being trumped by Winter.

He slowly got out of bed, trying to savour the warmth for as along as he was able. He pulled his dressing gown from the side and wrapped it around himself, wincing when his bare feet made contact with the floor.

He crossed to the window and opened the curtains. It was still relatively dark outside despite it being 6:30 in the morning but John could still clearly see the blanket of snow covering the street outside. He sighed to himself, the snow had been a little late this year, probably owing to some planet-detroying global warming situation, but it was back now.

He turned the TV on to the catch the news before he showered, hearing the news reporter talking about chaos on the roads due to the sudden snow was enough to put anyone off of their daily commute.

But, John thought, at least it was Friday. He wasn't sure why that made him happy, because although it meant an end to his terrible week it also meant he was one day closer to his article dead line. The one that was still sat, half-finished on his laptop.

John decided to forgo his usual morning jog before he went to work so instead jumped straight into the shower and went straight to work. He realised that any decent athlete wouldn't be stopped by some snow, but then he remembered all the news stories from last year of people tripping and accidentally decapitating themselves. And knowing his luck, it would be him.

His teeth were chattering by the time he got to the office so he was especially grateful when Sarah handed him a freshly brewed and, thankfully boiling, cup of coffee.

He thanked her but still couldn't help feeling guilty, he still felt like he was leading her on a bit despite not actually doing anything.

However, the conversation still flowed normally and John was grateful for that.

"You looking forward to Sunday?" Sarah asked.

John frowned. "What's happening Sunday?"

"The Christmas party at the Met." She reminded him and John's heart sunk.

"Oh yeah, no, I'm not looking forward to Sunday. Mainly because it's a Sunday and we have to work the next day."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You need to let loose," she told him, "have a little fun while it lasts. You're going to be man of the hour when your article gets published."

John smiled along with her but couldn't help thinking that it wasn't a case of when his article got published, it was a case of if.

Sarah turned to leave.

"Hey, Sarah," John called after her suddenly.

"Yeah?" She turned back.

John hesitated for a moment. "Just, hypothetically. What does it mean when someone acts differently around you, different to how they act around everyone else?"

Sarah frowned for a moment and John hoped she wasn't reading too much into it.

"I guess it depends on the person," she said eventually. "Do they act better or worse around you?"

It was John's turn to think. "I don't know...just more normal."

She made a sound low in her throat and walked closer to him. "You know, I had this boyfriend who acted like a big tough guy around his mates, but when he was with me he was the sweetest guy in the world."

John frowned. "So, what did you think it meant?"

Sarah shrugged. "I just thought it meant that he liked me more than anyone else."

John's face fell.

"Anyway," she said, laughing. "Apparently that wasn't the case. See you later."

John watched her retreating back.

"No," he said under his breath. "It isn't the case."

It couldn't be.

...

"To Sherlock's last day with the Metropolitan police service, and to all the years spent here!" Said Anderson, a forensics officer at the Met, raising a coffee mug, everyone else raised their mugs too.

Sherlock smiled at all of them, all gathered in the break room to say farewell to him on his official last day.

He would have been touched if they weren't saying goodbye to a complete stranger.

And also if it hadn't have been Anderson delivering the speech. God he hated Anderson.

"Thank you," he said, "thank you all. My years here wouldn't have been so special without all of you here, as well."

They all cheered him again and Sherlock felt the muscles in his cheeks begin to ache.

Someone began to speak to him and out of the corner of his eye he noticed the aforementioned forensics officer giving a sideways glance to Sally Donavon.

Sherlock resisted the temptation to roll eyes, aware that Anderson was already married.

_If I ever snap and become a serial killer; you're my first victim._

"Sherlock?" The officer talking to him asked. Shaking his head as if to clear it, Sherlock glanced at the man. "Sorry, zoned out for a minute."

The officer frowned. "Oh, that's not like the observant Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled at him and in that moment he felt so tired. He generally felt tired, having to imitate a normal person, but right now he felt as if the years were weighing down on him.

He wanted to shout in the officer's face that he wasn't perfect and maybe if this conversation weren't so damn boring he'd be paying more attention. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to talk about something other than his own greatness for once.

But he didn't do any of that, he just continued to listen politely, wondering when he had gotten so weak.

At the first opportune moment, Sherlock excused himself down to the morgue to fetch his coat which he'd left there earlier whilst chatting to Molly.

Finding the garment on a table, Sherlock folded it over his arm before catching sight of a clipboard dis guarded on the side, at the top of the form, written in Molly's neat handwriting was the name "Eileen Bailey." Sherlock had never actually found out what had happened to her, but there was no time now.

Still, it made him sad as he exited the morgue.

On his way to his office, Sherlock happened upon Lestrade in the corridor and, out of nowhere, John Watson's words echoed in his head.

Your confidence makes you arrogant...

"Greg?" Sherlock called out, stopping.

"Greg?" Asked Lestrade, walking back to him. "What's the occasion?"

_Your guess is as good as mine._

Sherlock's body seemed to be working independently of his mind quite often lately, he had no idea why.

"Um, listen, Greg. I just wanted to say that...you've been a fine friend to me over the years and I'm going to sincerely miss you."

Lestrade looked confused for a moment, probably for the fact that he had subconsciously realised that Sherlock was showing him genuine affection for the first time.

"Thank you." Said Lestrade, smiling, "I don't know what to say. I'm going to miss you, too."

Sherlock blinked a few times, believing him.

…

Feeling pretty good about himself, Sherlock shrugged into his coat as he headed for the door of the Met for the final time.

The news was playing loudly in the reception on the radio as Sherlock walked through.

"In other news, a man was found dead today after apparently taking a solitary trek in the snow, Scotland yard..."

The receptionist tutted. "It's such a shame, isn't it?" She directed to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned to her and, owing to his current good mood, decided to reply with what he really thought rather than with the fake sympathetic response he would usually give.

"Actually, I think it's kind of daft to trek out in dangerous snow, they could have helped themselves."

The receptionist frowned. "What? That doesn't sound like you at all, Sherlock."

Sherlock laughed humourlessly. "Yeah." He replied before stepping out into the snow.

He realised that he needed to reel it in around other people. John Watson was wrong; no one would respect him if he spoke his mind.

Sherlock shook his head. He needed to get this damn journalist out of his mind, it was making him sloppy.

But he couldn't help but realise that maybe the reason he couldn't stop thinking about John was because he was a puzzle, but unfortunately a puzzle Sherlock wouldn't be able to solve.

One second he was calling him arrogant and subtly rolling his eyes when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking, but then the next he was inviting him out for coffee and asking him questions about his family.

No one had ever asked about his family before. No one had noticed his anxiety about America.

Why was John taking so much interest in him? Especially if he thought he was so cocky and arrogant.

What did John see in Sherlock that no one else did?

_He doesn't see anything_. He quickly reminded himself. _He's just a journalist fishing for a story. It doesn't mean anything._

Sherlock was surprisingly saddened for a moment, he actually, just for one second, wished it wasn't true.

But it was.

…

"TGIF." John said when he entered his flat that night, immediately regretting it.

He dumped his shoulder bag onto his couch and headed for the bathroom before he did anything else.

"It should be illegal for a house to be colder than the actual snow." He murmured to himself before picking up the phone and ordering a takeaway, convincing himself that he deserved it.

The man on the phone told him he had a 40 minute waiting time and John wondered what he could do that would take 40 minutes.

Looking around the sitting room for a moment he realised what he needed to do.

Pulling various decorations from his cupboard, John began the awkward task of trying to put the Christmas tree together without it ending up upside down like last year.

So half an hour and one upside down tree later the doorbell went.

Rolling his eyes, John paid for his food and tipped the delivery guy for being early.

John ate his dinner and watched a comedy show on TV, afterwards he went back to trying to salvage his Christmas decorations.

An hour later, John looked at the finished product with pride. He looked at the star on the top and was reminded momentarily of the nativity, of being a Shepard and having his entire family crying with pride as they watched him.

He might not have liked having family at Christmas but it was the perfect time for it.

Christmas was about being together.

He smiled sadly.


	7. Day 7 - 20th December, 2014

John decided to treat himself to a lie in because it was a Saturday and he didn't need to be anywhere immediately.

He got up at half ten and luckily, it wasn't as freezing as it had been the previous morning.

John shuffled to the kitchen and made some coffee, smiling as he passed his tree.

John walked back into the sitting room and perched on the edge of the couch, switching on the TV.

He listened to a news report about a man who had died trekking out in the snow.

"That was a bit silly."John raised his eyebrows as he switched the channel over. 'A Christmas Carol' was on and, chuckling, John left it on and tossed the remote back onto the couch, making his way to one of the cupboards in the kitchen.

Opening it, he retrieved a few bags full of both Christmas presents and various types of wrapping paper and bows and decorative string.

Walking back into the sitting room, John placed the bags onto the couch and, nudging the coffee table out of the way with his foot, sprawled onto the floor, watching as Scrooge was visited by the ghost of Christmas past.

John had just finished wrapping presents for his mother when the ghost of Christmas future appeared.

John snorted. "Maybe the ghost of Christmas future will turn up and tell me that I'm still single in 20 years."

Then, apparently on cue, the door buzzer sounded throughout the hall.

Getting up, John discarded some wayward cello tape from his dressing gown before making his way to the door.

The last person John was expecting to see in that moment stood in his doorway was Sherlock Holmes, and yet here he was.

"The door was open." Sherlock explained, gesturing behind him but apparently more preoccupied with John's state of dress, looking him up and down.

John, stood there with bare feet and in his dressing gown, felt himself blushing furiously.

He reminded himself quickly that this was his flat and it was a Saturday and he was completely entitled to be lazing around in his pyjamas.

Still, though, he blushed.

Sherlock wasn't showing any mirth, however, he was merely stood there, face expectant.

Feeling idiotic, John stood aside. "Um, come in." He said.

Sherlock walked past him and walked into the sitting room. John followed him and found the detective surveying the scene before him. Obviously taking in the Christmas tree, the wrapping escapades and the festive flick.

"It looks Christmas-y in here." Was all he said.

John cursed himself behind the detective's back.

John walked in front of him, tentatively attempting to kick some of the mess under the askew coffee table.

"How did you know where I lived?" Asked John.

Sherlock looked sheepish for a moment.

"What?"

"Well, it was written on the back of a couple of envelopes in your folder when you came around to interview me on Monday."

John shook his head and, despite everything, found himself smiling. "You did say nothing gets past you."

Sherlock smiled slightly back.

John blinked a few times, unsure why Sherlock seemed so...friendly.

"Do you want coffee?" He asked after a moment, realising he wasn't being the best host in the world.

"Sure," Sherlock replied, "black, two sugars."

Sherlock watched John walk into his kitchen before turning back to his topsy turvy living room. It wasn't all that different to the mess in his own living room except Sherlock's mess seemed to consist of science equipment and stacks of files and papers whereas John's was gifts and wrapping paper and his flat gave the impression that it was actually lived in.

Sherlock's eyes roamed over the stack of wrapped Christmas presents and the jumble of wrapping paper on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock called out to John.

"Building a rocket." John shouted back sarcastically. "What does it look like?"

Sherlock found himself smiling as he surveyed the photos on the walls and the DVD's stacked neatly beside the TV.

John lived alone, that was obvious. Sherlock hadn't necessarily expected him to have a partner, mainly from the way he carried himself, but John seemed like the loving boyfriend type.

Still, it was saddening that John was alone. Especially at Christmas.

Sherlock made a face.

John walked back in holding two mugs of coffee and saw Sherlock frowning at nothing in particular.

"What?" He asked, handing him a mug.

"I think I might be getting into the Christmas spirit." Sherlock explained with playful disgust in his voice. "Thanks." He said, accepting the coffee.

"I thought you loved Christmas." Said John, grinning at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John had no idea what was going on, or what Sherlock was doing there, or why he was playing and joking the way he was.

"Sherlock, why are you here?" He finally asked, and the air shifted.

Sherlock looked uneasy for a moment. "I'm leaving tomorrow," Sherlock reminded him, "and I guess I just wanted to come by and say thank you. Thank you for all the honesty these past few days, it's not often people are like that around me."

"Oh." Said John, a little taken aback. After everything that John had said, after the idiotic way he had behaved around the detective the last few days and he was thanking him?

"You're welcome." He said, a little dumbly.

Sherlock smiled gratefully at him before taking a sip of coffee and John had no idea what he was supposed to do.

It suddenly occurred to him that there was a chance, the smallest chance, that he had been completely wrong about Sherlock Holmes.

In this moment, he didn't seem confident or arrogant or flirty at all. It was like he just pretended to be around other people.

Something else occurred to John in that moment as well, something he probably understood even less.

That he was really glad Sherlock was here.

And he actually didn't want him to go.

But there was no way he could tell him that, there was no way he could keep him here on his last day in England.

"You know I have a huge amount of shopping to do today," he found himself saying without thinking, "I have to host this ridiculous party for my family on Christmas day and I haven't got anything in yet and I..." John suddenly faltered, unsure what he was expecting himself to say.

He suddenly felt quite embarrassed at his outburst and looked to Sherlock, expecting that same deducing stare he always received.

But Sherlock wasn't staring intensely at him, he was merely looking expectantly at him like he was waiting for him to finish his sentence.

John's brain froze for a moment, Sherlock looked like a completely different person to the one John was used to.

"...And I could use a hand, if you're free."

Sherlock didn't answer for a moment and John was sure he'd just made a complete fool out of himself.

"Sure." Said Sherlock, grabbing John's attention again. "I'm not doing anything."

John thanked him graciously but there was no need to, Sherlock had promised himself he'd have found some way to stick around. He didn't want to leave John Watson just yet, he couldn't explain it.

He just didn't feel like they were done yet.

"Oh, but I have to finish here first." John said, gesturing to the half-wrapped gifts strewn across the floor.

"I'll help." Sherlock offered almost immediately.

"Really?" Asked John.

…

As it transpired, Sherlock Holmes was more of a hindrance than a help.

"Okay, then you fold these two pieces over..."

Sherlock followed John's instructions, his slender fingers folding over the specified pieces of paper.

"Okay, then fold that whole bit over to the..."

Sherlock folded the side over but, unsatisfied with the angle, unfolded it and tried again.

John watched the intense concentration on the detective's face and found himself smiling despite himself. In all honesty, the only way the moment could have been any cuter would have been if Sherlock had stuck his tongue out.

"I can't believe the famous Sherlock Holmes has never wrapped a Christmas present before." John observed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't look away from the task at hand. "How many cases do you suppose involve paper folding?"

"The origami killer?"

Sherlock turned to him and made a face. "That's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

The pair lapsed into surprisingly comfortable silence for a few moments until Sherlock spoke.

"Here, hold this." He instructed.

John put his fingers on the folded paper to keep it in place while Sherlock fished around for a strip of cello tape.

When Sherlock applied the cello tape to the gift, his fingers accidentally came into contact with Johns.

Startled, John retracted his hand immediately and the paper unfolded again.

The look of disappointment on Sherlock's face would have been saddening if it wasn't so funny.

Sherlock tried, for the third time, to cello tape down the wrapping paper and John grasped his coffee between his fingers. But even the boiling water seemed cold to the heat that was lingering on his fingers from Sherlock's touch.

…

It was half an hour later that Sherlock and John finally exited John's flat.

Sherlock buttoned up his long coat against the wind and sent a sideways glance to the journalist. "Sorry I'm such a terrible present-wrapper." He said a little sheepishly.

John smiled to himself. "No, you're not bad." He told him. "Still can't believe you've never wrapped a present before."

Sherlock felt the embarrassment creep in. "I don't really do that much outside of work." He admitted, hoping it didn't sound as sad to John as it did to him.

"Don't you have any hobbies?" John asked, a little mesmerised by his footprints in the snow.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I can't imagine having to throw a ridiculous party for my family."

John laughed, more at his unfortunate situation than at Sherlock's comment. "Did you ever get a chance to say goodbye to your family?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock replied.

"Oh," said John, "I feel a little guilty stealing you on your last day."

"Don't." Said Sherlock, catching Johns eye. "I'd rather be here."

John nodded to him, acting nonchalant before Sherlock looked away again and John allowed the blush to spread across his face, willing it away.

_Come on_ , he said to himself, _don't do this. You're not special._

…

They entered a large shopping centre and John again wondered what the hell he was doing.

From what he could gather, he had been innocently wrapping presents in his pyjamas when the arrogant, narcissistic detective he didn't like turned up at his doorstep acting sweeter than a baby kitten.

John glanced across to the detective, who was looking at the giant Christmas tree in the centre of the space.

He momentarily wondered if Sherlock had been abducted in the middle of the night and replaced.

But there was something very natural in the way Sherlock was acting now, like it was his natural way of being and everything else was just a show.

They walked together, chatting, until they came across a supermarket and walked inside.

Sherlock, it turned out, was much more useful at selecting dinner party food than he was at wrapping presents, telling John how a specific wine would go with a specific fish and what foods were traditionally served at Christmas.

When Sherlock began examining a selection of cheeses that John couldn't even pronounce, John finally said, "so, do cases generally involve the need for posh catering?"

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and turned to John, cocking his head to the side. "What?"

"You just said you didn't have any hobbies, except I can't even pronounce half the things in this basket."

Sherlock looked like he was hiding a smile. "Blame my mother, she loved hosting all these posh little tea parties when I was growing up, some of it rubbed off. I can't say it's ever been useful for a case, though."

"Well, it's pretty useful now, I'm grateful."

"Then it hasn't been in vain."

…

"You know," began Sherlock, stopping in front of the bakery section. "I may murder whomever decided to play Christmas songs in every shop we've been into." As he said it, 'All I want for Christmas is you', blared out from one of the overhead speakers.

John chuckled. "I guess you'd be the perfect person to get away with it."

Sherlock shook his head at him.

The pair lapsed into a silence that was only filled by the Christmas song on the radio.

_I just want you for my own_

_more than you could ever know_

_make my wish come true..._

_all I want for Christmas is you_

Tentatively, John sneaked a quick glance at Sherlock only to find the detective's eyes locked onto him. Seeing the other staring at them, the pair both looked away immediately, cursing themselves in unison.

When they had finished up and paid, Sherlock paid for a cab to take them back to John's instead of risking stepping out into a snowstorm with bags and bags of food.

The cab ride passed in gentle conversation for the most part, until John stumbled upon an apparently frosty topic.

"So, did you get anywhere with the dead woman?"

"No." said Sherlock, sounding suddenly glum. John inclined his head towards him.

"The mortician believes she was killed by accidentally hitting a nail or something in a field that gave her tetanus. But the wound was too clean, and she had a family, why would she be in a field? I can't help feeling like she was murdered." He finished solemnly.

Despite the darkness of the subject, John couldn't help but notice just how easily Sherlock was speaking about it, as opposed to his coldness the other day.

John found himself smiling a little.

"I feel bad about leaving when there could be a murderer out there."

John's smile dropped, not because of Sherlock's suspected murderer, but because he was suddenly reminded that the detective was leaving the next day.

Sherlock had apparently forgotten that fact as well as he too fell silent next to John.

The pair remained quiet until the cab ride was over.

…

John put the phone down as Sherlock unpacked the shopping and placed it into various cupboards.

"I really need to stop eating takeaway." He mumbled.

"Cooking is boring." Sherlock replied, laughing suddenly. "Ha. Have fun cooking all this."

John scowled. "You should be glad you're in a different country, otherwise I'd just rope you into helping me."

"Then you'd be serving your guests burnt food as well as badly wrapped presents. Where do peas go?"

"Top cupboard. And yeah, I guess you're right." John laughed, picturing the scene in his head. But then it occurred to him that Sherlock would be gone by Christmas day, also no one else really knew what he was like so it wouldn't matter anyway.

They continued unpacking until the food came.

John switched the TV on to yet another Christmas film.

He rolled his eyes. "What's with all the Christmas films?" He asks rhetorically.

"Because it's Christmas?" Sherlock pointed out obnoxiously, John shook his head.

"You know, I think I might be starting to understand Christmas." Sherlock said after a moment.

John angled his head towards him. "Did the ghost of Christmas past visit you in the night or something?"

Sherlock shook his head redundantly. "No, I'm just starting to get the appeal of wanting to spend time with people you actually like. I think I didn't get it before because I never really liked anyone bef..." Sherlock fell silent as the enormity of his words became apparent.

Sherlock caught John's eye and they stared at each other for the longest time. John wasn't sure what was going on exactly, but for a moment, he couldn't see anything but Sherlock.

"I should go." Said Sherlock suddenly, breaking the moment.

"Oh," said John, taken aback, watching as Sherlock stood quickly and headed for the door. As he followed him he remembered that Sherlock wasn't just saying goodbye for the night, he was saying goodbye forever.

When Sherlock reached the door, he turned and suddenly he and John were face to face.

John didn't know what to say.

"Thanks for today." He told Sherlock earnestly. "For helping with the shopping," he quickly clarified.

Sherlock nodded slowly, eyes locked on his. "Yeah. You're welcome."

For some reason, John didn't want the moment to end but he knew he couldn't keep Sherlock there forever.

"I wish you the best." Was all he managed to say.

"And you." Sherlock replied. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something else, but instead he turned on his heel and trotted down the stairs quickly and opened the main door and disappeared through.

John quickly walked down the stairs and stuck his head out into the night, feeling the flecks of snow fall onto his face.

He could see Sherlock's retreating back getting further and further away from him.

For a mad second he wanted to call out to him, to run after him but he didn't.

He just shut the door.


	8. Day 8 - 21st December, 2014

Sherlock's flight wasn't until the afternoon and with nothing else to do with the morning, he decided it was worth checking up on some unfinished business.

It wasn't all that hard to break into the Met. Police Station, probably easier than it should have been.

Even though Sherlock didn't generally think as highly of himself as he pretended, he still couldn't help wondering what they were going to do without him around. There were very few competent detectives around, except maybe Lestrade.

He imagined he'd get a phone call on Christmas day telling him that England had fallen into the sea.

He had to resort to these crass methods to get to the morgue considering he wasn't technically on staff anymore so no one was obligated to let him see anything.

Because it was a Sunday and nearly Christmas there were very few officers there, Sherlock didn't have a hard time sneaking down to the morgue.

Sherlock perched on one of the metal tables and stared at the wound on Eileen Baileys arm. He couldn't get the bad feeling out of his stomach, it wasn't like him to leave a case in the middle.

Could he just go to America with the possibility of foul play in England?

Did he really value his career over justice that much?

Sherlock shook his head, these were the times he really needed to keep himself in check. To make sure he didn't accidentally become the image he had created for himself.

Taking his phone from his coat pocket and removing one glove, Sherlock made two phone calls.

The first was to Molly Hooper, who was less than happy to be awoken early on a Sunday but more agreeable when she heard Sherlock's voice on the other end of the phone.

The second was to the airport, this phone call took slightly longer.

…

John sat on his living room floor, using his coffee table as a rest to write his Christmas cards out on.

He'd already showered and changed which was unlike him on a Sunday. But then who was to say that his boss wasn't going to call him in with some other random article.

_To Mum, merry Christmas and..._ He slipped it into the envelope and wrote her name on the front.

_Dear June and Chris..._ This one required a stamp.

_To Mike + family, sorry you couldn't make it..._ Sealed and addressed.

_To Sherlock..._

John stopped suddenly and looked at the card he was writing out. He shook his head at himself, Sherlock was gone. What was he going to do? Mail a Christmas card to America?

It wasn't like he could even give it to him next year. John was probably never going to see him again.

John stared at the card for a long time, suddenly plunged into an in-explainable depression.

John carefully picked up the pen and gently wrote something below Sherlock's name. He stared at his words sadly for a moment.

Then, deciding he wasn't allowed to be sad at Christmas, quickly seized the card and promptly ripped it in two.

He stood and walked into the kitchen, throwing the two halves of the card into the small waste paper bin in the corner before walking back into the sitting room, plopping back down on the floor and continuing with his list.

Once all the Christmas cards were done, John worked out a route he could deliver all the near ones on, realising he could do with the exercise after a weekend of lazing around and eating fast food.

As he descended the stairs and stepped out into the snow he was unceremoniously reminded of running down them after Sherlock the previous night, and all the feelings of melancholy he'd experienced last night came racing back to him.

_Stop thinking about Sherlock Holmes._

He really, really did want to stop thinking about Sherlock, but more than anything, he wished that he still hated him. He wished he'd never gotten to know the sweet, honest, comfortable Sherlock.

But then at exactly the same time he was glad that he'd had the chance.

He shook his head. He guessed the one thing he really was going to miss about the detective was just seeing his face. Irritatingly, he'd gotten used to his company despite the fact they'd only known each other a few days.

It had been a good few days, though.

It had made him feel less lonely at Christmas time.

…

John returned home and spent the rest of the day doing various chores and errands he hadn't been able to get done in his hectic week.

He wondered momentarily what he was going to do for the evening when he suddenly remembered that his presence was required at the Met. Christmas party.

He sighed loudly to himself.

_Perfect_. He thought. _This never bloody ends._

John begrudgingly took his suit from his wardrobe and, judging that it was fancy enough, threw it on before lounging on his sofa for a while, wondering what incurable disease he could fake so he wouldn't have to go.

When the time came, John phoned a cab and when he stepped outside it was pitch black and snowing again despite the fact it was early evening.

"Thought it was supposed to get lighter on the 21st." He said cheerily to the cabbie.

"Who knows with the weather these days," the cabbie responded, "did you hear about the poor sod found in the snow?"

"Yeah," said John. "Sad, really sad."

John gave the cabbie a little Christmas tip when they arrived and walked into the Met., knowing the way now.

He almost physically recoiled when he saw the change to the break room. It wasn't the simple, almost sterile room it had been a week ago. It was now lavishly decorated with black and white decorations and looked like some suave debonair set from a film from the 20s. John was almost saddened because all the men weren't wearing fedoras.

"Looks good, doesn't it?" Said a voice beside him.

John turned to see Greg Lestrade offering him a glass of champagne. "Oh, Greg. Hi, place looks amazing," he said. "Thanks." He accepted the glass.

"Thanks for coming," said Lestrade.

"Thanks for inviting us," John replied, taking a sip.

"It's the least we can do. Can't wait to read your article."

Oh yeah. The article.

John merely smiled.

"Well, enjoy yourself." Said Lestrade, moving away.

When he was gone, John made a face at himself. He really needed to finish the damn article, it was due in a few days.

He turned around to see if he could spot anyone he knew, Sarah maybe, Gregson at the worst, refusing to stand on his own all evening like an idiot.

John could swear he saw a familiar face on the other side of the room and had to do a double take when he saw Sherlock stood talking a woman.

He stood stock still for a few moments, unsure of what to do with himself.

Sherlock was here, here and now and...

Without thinking, John practically ran the distance of the room to the detective.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He asked without thinking, apparently everything except _"Sherlock is here"_ going completely out of the window.

"John." Said Sherlock, a smile breaking out across his face, immediately turning him into the same Sherlock from the previous day.

Then, the smile was gone and he turned to the woman. "Molly, could you give us a moment?" He asked, voice an octave deeper.

She nodded. "Yeah, of course." She said before moving away, Sherlock turned his attentions back to John, smiling again.

"I couldn't leave." He told him.

"You couldn't?" Asked John hopefully.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, not without knowing what happened to the woman in the morgue."

Oh.

"Y...yeah, yeah, of course." John agreed, forcing the smile to stay on his face. "You...delayed your flight?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah, they had to move me to another airport a few hundred miles away, but I'm not leaving until the 24th."

John felt the pit in his stomach reopen. Sherlock was still leaving, but he was here now. John couldn't help but be grateful for it.

So much so that he decided to tell Sherlock what he had kept to himself yesterday.

"I'm glad you're here." John told him truthfully.

Sherlock smiled his response and John couldn't believe that he hadn't noticed until that moment just how beautiful he actually was, he was dressed up in a tuxedo and the lighting was playing off of his hair.

It made him happy but at the same time it broke his heart. _You're in too deep, John Watson. For something that isn't going to happen._

The evening passed in relative comfort and John was glad he didn't actually pretend to have bird flu so he didn't have to come.

John wasn't sure if spending the evening in Sherlock's presence was a blessing or a curse, because he was grateful he got to see him but he knew it would just hurt even more when he left again.

So when it got to about half ten in the evening, John wasn't sure if he was happy to call it a night or not.

"I should probably get a cab." He finally said.

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't bother, I'll drive you back."

_Cut this off, cut this off right now._

Sherlock smiled at him.

_I can't._

"Okay."

…

It had never occurred to John that Sherlock actually drove, now he thought about it, it sounded a little silly but it wasn't something that had actually occurred to him before.

John kept his eyes on the front of the road as Sherlock steered, unsure what he supposed to say.

When they got back to John's flat, John knew that he shouldn't have invited Sherlock up but he would have felt guilty if he didn't.

When the pair were stood inside his kitchen, John was saved from the silence by the sudden overwhelming need to pee.

He excused himself to the bathroom, leaving Sherlock alone.

Sherlock began to pace around the small kitchen, asking himself exactly what he was doing there. He knew this was ridiculous, he'd already said goodbye to John Watson and that had been painful enough, he didn't need to do it to himself again.

Plus, he didn't necessarily want to force his company on a man who looked like he had been trying to squirm his way out of Sherlock's presence since he'd seen him.

Sherlock toyed with the idea of just leaving but knew John would never forgive him. But would John care?

Sherlock skimmed his hand along the side of the sink, trying to pin down his feelings once and for all.

What did he want from John Watson? Why did he feel this way about him? What was the point if John didn't...

He cursed as he accidentally upturned a half full glass of water. Sherlock watched as the liquid dripped out onto the counter top. He quickly righted the glass and ripped off a wad of paper towels from a roll John had on the side.

He mopped up the water quickly and balled up the sodden towels, walking over to the bin to throw them inside.

Then he saw his name, written in pen on a piece of paper.

Unhygienic though it was, Sherlock fished the slip of paper out of the bin. The bit of paper, it turned out, was half a Christmas card addressed to him.

_To Sherlock_

_all I want for Christmas is you_

Everything changed. Seven words changed everything.

Sherlock knew, how couldn't he know, what John Watson meant to him.

John Watson meant more to him than anyone ever had.

Than he'd ever allowed himself to believe.

Sherlock looked up as he heard the toilet flush and saw John walking down the hallway to him.

John halted in his step when he saw what Sherlock was holding, knowing exactly what it said.

Sherlock straightened up and their eyes met.

"Nothing gets past you." John said quietly.

"It wasn't just the woman," Sherlock said. "That wasn't the only reason I stayed."

John walked up to him like an automaton and took the card from Sherlock's hand and placed it on the side.

John turned back to the detective, Sherlock suddenly looked so scared, like a deer caught in the headlights.

John resisted the temptation to smile, not because it was funny, but because he simply couldn't fathom seeing such an obnoxious man looking like a startled rabbit because of _him._

Tentatively, John reached out a hand and took Sherlock's. Sherlock nearly recoiled when he felt his somewhat cool skin come into contact with John's. Staring down at their fingers, Sherlock slowly entwined them together, mesmerized by the way they fit.

John watched Sherlock staring down at their hands and bravely placed a hand against Sherlock's cheek. The contact seemed to startle the detective, whose eyes darted towards the journalist, looking wild and alive. Pulling John into him, Sherlock pressed his lips to his.

John untangled their hands and ran a hand through Sherlock's soft curls, moving his fingers until they curled around the detectives neck. John pulled Sherlock down and deepened the kiss. Sherlock, it seemed, was quite happy to be manhandled this way. He responded to each of John's caresses and kisses like an animal learning to walk for the first time. After a few moments, John felt Sherlock tentatively slide a hand around his waist and pull his body tighter against him. They stayed like that until they became a tangle of limbs, unable to differentiate between each other anymore.

Sherlock pulled away from the kiss slowly, John could feel his warm breath ghosting over his sensitive lips and quickly leant up and kissed him again, capturing Sherlock's mouth with his own.

"You're so beautiful," Sherlock whispered across his mouth, John groaned.

John took one hand from Sherlock's neck and pushed his coat off of one shoulder. Sherlock, seeming to find his footing at last, retracted his hands from around John's waist and took his coat off quickly, letting it fall to the floor before his hands were immediately at John's waist again, lifting him with surprising strength until John was forced to wrap his legs around Sherlock's waist.

The pair collapsed onto John's bed, John's legs still wrapped tightly around Sherlock.

"Sherlock..." John moaned brokenly.

Sherlock silenced him with another kiss.


	9. Day 9 - 22nd December, 2014

John was woken unceremoniously by his 6:30am alarm but instead of waking up to the biting cold, he found himself cocooned in a pair of warm arms. He reached a hand out and silenced the alarm, turning over to see a sleepy Sherlock grinning at him.

"Morning." Sherlock said.

"Morning." John replied, smiling widely.

Sherlock hitched himself up on his elbow and arched an eyebrow. "Why are you so happy?" He asked suspiciously.

John reached a hand out and traced the pale outline of muscle on Sherlock's torso. Sherlock shivered. "Ah, that's cold."

John grinned again. "Sorry, I'm just happy. In fact, I don't think I've ever been happier."

John watched joyously as a pink blush spread across Sherlock's cheeks. He loved that Sherlock got flustered like this, it was the most adorable thing John had ever seen.

"You're so cute." John voiced.

Sherlock frowned at him. "Cute?" He asked, immediately pulling John closer to him.

"I thought you said I was cold." John mocked.

"Did I say I cared?" Sherlock asked rhetorically before pressing a soft kiss to his cool lips. When Sherlock pulled back, he saw John staring up at him, eyes wide.

Sherlock frowned with worry. "What is it?" He asked softly.

John licked his lips. "Sherlock, I'm sorry." He said.

"Sorry for what?" Sherlock asked, confused, tangling his fingers together with John's.

"I'm sorry for thinking the worst of you in the beginning."

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't be sorry, there's no need to be."

John sat up and faced him. "No, there is." He began. "I thought you were a total prick when I met you and I didn't even know you, no one really knows you."

Sherlock's mouth pulled up into a half smile. "I suppose you're right."

"Why are you so honest with me?" John finally asked, "I've been wondering for a couple days actually, what is it about me?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "I don't know, a feeling. I guess I just knew you'd understand."

John leant forward and kissed him again. He didn't think he could ever get tired of kissing Sherlock, he was so receptive to every little touch.

Sherlock gently pushed John down onto the bed, Sherlock had turned out to be a much more tentative lover than John had expected, making sure that John responded to every kiss and caress positively before he continued. John supposed the word was selfless.

John tangled a hand in Sherlock's hair and pulled him down to him, they met in a kiss.

Sherlock's phone buzzed in the distance.

John groaned against Sherlock's lips.

"I have to get that." Sherlock whispered.

"No you don't," John said, kissing Sherlock again.

Sherlock laughed before pulling away from John and getting out of the bed.

John swiveled and watched Sherlock's naked body walk out of the room.

When he was sure Sherlock was gone, John allowed himself to fall back onto the bed and he most definitely did not let out a sound close to a squeal in happiness.

Sherlock found his coat in the kitchen and fished his phone out of his pocket and saw a missed call from Molly.

He quickly phoned her back, wishing he wasn't stood naked in a kitchen and instead wishing he was back in bed with a certain someone.

"Molly." He said when she picked up.

"You know how you begged me to do another post mortem on Eileen Bailey?" She asked.

"Yes." He said, walking back to John's bedroom.

"Well, I've just finished it, pop in and I'll show you the notes."

Sherlock watched John bend over to get to the bottom drawer of his dresser.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

"Err, yeah." Sherlock said, blinking a few times. "Yeah, sorry, bad reception. Molly, you're a star, I owe you one."

"Who was that?" Asked John when Sherlock hung up.

"Molly," Sherlock explained. "She's finished the post mortem on the dead woman."

John nodded. "Oh, right. I hope it all goes how you want it to." He said sincerely.

Sherlock smiled widely. "Oh it will, nothing can go badly today."

John felt himself blush until Sherlock reached out and snaked his hands around John's waist, pulling him closer to him. There were aspects of Sherlock's confidence that John admired, after all.

John watched as Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and stared inquisitively down at him. It still looked like Sherlock was trying to figure something out about him but his gaze was somehow affectionate now instead of intense.

Sherlock Holmes was a totally different person to the man he'd been only a few days ago, John wasn't even sure that was physically possible.

"Thank you." Sherlock said finally.

"For what?" Asked John.

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "For changing my life."

…

John was humming to himself when he walked into the office, he dropped his bag off by his desk and headed off to the coffee machine.

He spied Sarah stood beside it and walked over to her.

"Good morning," he greeted cheerily.

She eyed him suspiciously. "You're strangely chirpy for a Monday morning."

He shrugged. "I'm just happy,"

She nudged him. "It's good to see you smiling," she said, "especially after last week, having to work on a Sunday."

"Yeah." John nodded. "Did you get any Christmas stuff done this weekend?"

Sarah nodded. "Yeah, got most of the presents wrapped for my parents. You?"

_Are you possibly referring to my insanely passionate night with the most incredible man I've ever met?_

"Yeah, I got all the food in..."

The pair chatted all the way back to John's desk and John was about to sit down when he spotted Gregson coming his way. But not even Gregson could spoil his mood today.

"Morning John." He greeted.

"Good morning, Sir," John replied, sitting at his desk and opening his laptop.

"How's the article going?" He asked.

John nodded. "Yeah, fine. I really feel like I'm getting a grip on it now."

"Good, good. I suppose you're extra nervous about it now, right?" He asked with a laugh.

John frowned slightly. "Nervous about what?" He asked.

"Didn't you here?" Gregson asked. "Sherlock Holmes isn't leaving for New York until Christmas Eve, so he'll be able to read the article." And with that, he took off in the other direction.

John stared at his laptop screen, his bubble now officially burst.

In all the excitement he'd actually managed to forget that Sherlock, not his Sherlock, but the perfect Sherlock was still destined for New York.

John wasn't exactly sure if he was in a position to demand anything from Sherlock but even if he was, what would he ask? Would he beg him to stay because he didn't want to give up what they could have? Or would he let him go because he had amazing opportunities waiting for him in America?

John's face fell into his hands.

…

"It was only tiny," Molly explained, "that's why we didn't detect it the first time."

Sherlock frowned as he read the file in front of him. "Cocaine," he breathed. "She had cocaine in her system. She got the tetanus from a dirty needle, that's why she was in a field." He rubbed his eyes. "She killed herself. Or, the death was her fault."

"Yeah," Molly nodded. "So, you figured it out."

"There was no murderer." He said, face stony. "All this," he gestured to the files, getting angrier. "I stayed, and there was no murderer."

"Look, Sherlock-" Molly began, hands outstretched like she was trying to physically calm him down. "I hate to say it, but there must have been some other reason you stayed. I mean, I know you don't like leaving a case but that's not enough to delay moving your whole life. Maybe there's something else that's kept you here, something bigger than this."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair as he looked at her, forcing himself to remain calm.

"Yeah." He agreed.

….

After only getting Sherlock's voicemail, John decided to get a cab to the Metropolitan in a moment of madness, put on edge by Gregson's words.

He needed to find Sherlock, although he had no idea what he was going to say once he found him.

John tried to walk normally and calmly into the building, realising that it probably wasn't the wisest idea to rush like a mad man into one of England's most revered police stations.

Once he walked in, he considered going to the help desk to ask where Sherlock's office was until he happened upon Lestrade walking down a corridor.

"Detective Inspector!" John called out, walking up to him.

"John." He said, mildly surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I was just here to see Sherlock, about the article." He added quickly. "Um, could you possibly tell me where his office is?"

"Sure," said Lestrade, "at the end of this corridor, on the right, his name is written on the door."

"Thank you." Said John, surprised at the easy instructions before taking off in the aforementioned direction.

Lestrade watched him go, perplexed.

John came to Sherlock's office relatively quickly and, composing himself, knocked.

"Come in." Came Sherlock's voice from the other side.

John took a couple of deep breaths, reminding himself that he was a grown man and not a love sick teenager, but then also justifying himself by thinking that he hadn't liked anyone in years and being in different countries wasn't great for relationships.

Sherlock looked up as John walked into the office, expression grim. John momentarily forgot what he had came for.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock sighed, clasping his hands together. "That woman, in the morgue, she got tetanus from a dirty needle, she was an addict. The death was her own fault."

John didn't know what to say.

"Which means," Sherlock continued, "that there was no murder, and no murderer, and I thought I'd delayed my flight for nothing."

John tried to not let his heart sink.

"But..." Sherlock continued, causing John to look up at him again. Sherlock sighed and his agitation seemed to melt away with it. He unclasped his hands and his expression relaxed. "I'm glad you came here, John. Because I've been doing some thinking and I think I stayed for y..."

Before Sherlock could finish his sentence, the door to his office opened with no knock and a woman with pinned up black hair and crimson lips came sauntering in holding some file work.

Sherlock smiled at her in exactly the same way he had smiled when John had first met him. Arrogant, narcissistic and worst of all, flirty.

"Irene." He greeted. "Thanks for those."

"No problem, babe." She said suggestively, placing the papers down on his desk. She turned to John and her expression hardened, John resisted the temptation to raise an eyebrow.

"Who's this?" She asked.

"A journalist." Sherlock replied, and John's mouth nearly fell open.

"Oh," she acknowledged, looking disinterested and walking out of the room.

As soon as she was gone, John rounded on Sherlock, feeling the rage pouring into him.

"What the hell was that?" He asked, annoyance seeping into his voice.

Sherlock, for his part, looked confused. "What was...what?" He asked.

"That!" John gestured to the door. "The 'babe' stuff and you referred to me as the 'journalist' and not as..."

"Not as what, John?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

The room was silent for a moment, the calm before the storm.

"Why do you do that?" John exploded, causing Sherlock to jump a little. "Please, just tell me, because I've been dying to know since I met you. Why do you act like an arrogant, flirty prick around everyone else when it's obvious that's not who you are?"

"Because I have to!" Sherlock all but shouted back and John fell into silence. He'd never known Sherlock to shout before.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, apparently composing himself before he began again. "Look, before I worked for the Met. I was a 'consulting detective', and I was myself. I was honest and brash and no one liked me. No one wanted my help! I couldn't help people that way, I couldn't solve crimes that way!"

"So you think having fake friends who like a fake version of you is any better?" Asked John incredulously.

Sherlock sighed. "It makes my life easier." He explained. "No one liked me when I was myself!"

"That's not true!" John shouted, and Sherlock's face went slack with shock. "Because I did." John told him, not caring about the impact of his words anymore. "I thought that...having someone around that genuinely cared for you might make you see that you don't have to pretend anymore." He took a step back. "But apparently I'm not good enough."

The wide-eyed, shocked look on Sherlock's face said everything and John could feel the tears pricking at his eyes.

"John, please try and understand. The rest of London isn't like you, they won't understand. New York won't be like you, I can't have you both."

John straightened his back. "Well, it looks like you've made your choice. If you're not prepared to give up this shit fake personality for me then I'm not sure what we're doing here." John's sentence had begun angry but by the end of it, his anger had turned to dejection.

"John..." Said Sherlock softly, voice full of desperation. His eyes were wide with what looked like fear.

John shook his head slowly. "Just go to America, Sherlock." He said miserably, feeling a single tear sliding rebelliously down his cheek. "I'm not even sure what I was expecting anyway."

John turned and walked from the room and Sherlock tried to open his mouth to call out after him, to tell him he was sorry or beg him for forgiveness but nothing came out.

His breath came out in short, shallow gulps and his eyes wavered, he felt totally helpless.

Irene walked back into the room without knocking and saw Sherlock sat at his desk, expression neutral.

"Hey, sorry I forgot this one." She said, plucking a form from his desk.

"Thanks," Sherlock smiled widely at her, "See you later."

She sketched him a little wave as she left and when his door was shut, Sherlock's face fell into his hands and his body was overcome with desperate, keening sobs that shook him to the core.

He clutched at the back of his head as he convulsed and willed himself not to make a single sound, but every few seconds a raw intake of breath would make itself known.

…

John went straight back to his office, nearly everyone else had gone home so he had the luxury of being alone at his desk. The lights were low and it gave the entire office an ethereal quality.

John had never cried silently before, generally he was a massive wailer with snot and all, but right now the tears were streaming down his face and he'd never felt a pain that was so raw it was silent.

John wished he could scream or shout or wail but he couldn't, it felt like every emotion had left his body completely.

He pressed a hand to his face to stop the water flow but failed, allowing the moisture to flow thick and fast.

After a few minutes, the tears began to dry on his face but the void in his stomach just got deeper. He supposed this was what it felt like to lose everything.

Sniffing slightly, John opened up his laptop and was greeted with the half-finished article that was due tomorrow. The words SHERLOCK HOLMES were emblazoned across the top, John let out a little breath.

He thought, he thought long and hard on his judgement of the great Sherlock Holmes and after the longest time, he began to type.


	10. Day 10 - 23rd December, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know this update is a little later than promised but there was a family issue that required immediate attention, sorry for the delay guys. x

Sarah had the latest issue of the 'Westminster Herald' opened to the double page spread, reading John's readily printed article eagerly.

John walked past her and spied what she was reading. John felt his cheeks go hot and attempted to sneak past her but it was to no avail.

"John!" She called out.

John looked to see her beckoning him over to her, smiling widely.

John walked over to her, smiling awkwardly. "You've seen it then." He stated.

"Everyone in the office has read it, it's amazing." She told him earnestly.

"Thanks." Said John, wishing he could be in any other place right now but Sarah wasn't prepared to let him leave.

"I thought you were cutting it pretty close, but apparently it worked, this is probably the best thing you've ever written, and so honest..."

"Thank you." Said John again, a little louder. "I should really..."

"John!"

Oh great.

John turned to see Gregson striding over to him, clutching a copy of the newspaper in his hand. "Congratulations, this is exactly what I was hoping for when I put you on this, and to come up with it only in a week."

_A night._

"Thanks," John repeated sullenly.

Gregson grinned. "Look at him, shy as anything." He grasped John's shoulder before walking away again. Sarah shot him an amused look.

"Don't." Said John, attempting to move away again.

"So...what are you doing over Christmas?" She asked innocently, in an attempt to get him to stay.

"Err..." Began John, searching his mind for plans that had been so prominent in his mind before. "I've got to host this get together for my family on Christmas day." He finally said.

Sarah nodded. "That sounds like fun." She said sarcastically and John raised his eyebrows in agreement.

"If you're not doing anything on boxing day, maybe we could grab a drink?" She asked tentatively, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

John was tempted to lie and say he had plans, but then at the same time he was tempted to placate her and just go along with it.

He certainly didn't expect the response that came out of his mouth.

"You know, Sarah, normally I would love too. But I just got out of something and..." He felt himself tear up unexpectedly.

"Oh, God!" Exclaimed Sarah, putting a hand on his shoulder. "John...Tell me what happened."

"It's stupid." He said, trying to laugh at himself but his voice cracked halfway through. He tried to wipe the tears away with his hand.

Sarah quickly reached across her desk and passed him a pack of tissues. John accepted one gratefully, angry at himself for this idiotic display of emotion, but most of all he was angry at the sympathy on Sarah's face. He felt that searing guilt all over again.

"We barely knew each other," he continued, when he'd calmed sufficiently. "But I felt like I knew him better than anyone else, better than I'd known anyone else. But now I'll never see him again."

Sarah froze for a moment, the cogs of her brain working. "You're talking about Sherlock." She said after a moment, it wasn't a question.

John closed his eyes.

"Yes." He admitted quietly, what was the point in hiding it?

John wasn't sure what he was expecting, abuse, maybe? Surprise?

"I wish you would have told me. I could have been there for you."

John turned to her immediately. "What? You're not mad?"

She looked questioningly at him. "Why would I be mad? I'm upset, I don't want to see you like this. Especially at Christmas."

John felt like a gigantic fool. He'd unknowingly judged Sarah. He'd put her down as work colleague who had a kind of thing for him and nothing more. He'd never seen that she might actually be a good friend to him, an ally.

"To be honest, I thought something was wrong, I tried to get you to talk but you didn't, I figured it was really personal."

She had, John could see it clearly now, she had tried to talk to him. He'd just misconstrued it as interest.

He looked up at her and returned her smile. "Thanks for being such a great friend, I'm sorry I acted like such a dick."

"That's what friends are for," she grinned slightly before pulling him into a hug.

John felt a little better.

…

Lestrade walked into Sherlock's office to see Sherlock looking up expectantly at him. However, his face immediately fell and he looked back down at his laptop.

"You expecting someone else?" Lestrade asked.

"No." Answered Sherlock glumly after a pause.

Lestrade's brow furrowed slightly. Something was bothering Sherlock, he could tell, especially because he should have been brimming with excitement.

"Look, you don't have to be here," Lestrade told him, "it's your last day. You can go spend it with your family or something."

Sherlock immediately opened his mouth to protest but shut it again. How many times had John told him he should go and see his family in case he regretted it?

Thinking about John pulled on Sherlock's stomach but he quickly banished the feeling away, burying it deep inside of himself.

"I guess I could go and see them." He decided unenthusiastically. He supposed it would take his mind off of...other things.

He stood immediately, startling Lestrade. "Yeah, alright, I'll be..." Sherlock suddenly spied a wad of paper in Lestrade's hand, angled outwards as if he were trying to hand it to him.

"What are you holding?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade held out the newspaper for Sherlock to see, the words 'WESTMINSTER HERALD' screamed out at him from the top of the page.

The same pull in his stomach returned immediately and Sherlock tried again to discard it, but he couldn't.

"Oh, it's the article. It just came through this morning, it's really good. Thought you might want to see it."

Sherlock forced a smile onto his face. "Oh, thank you." He reached out mechanically and took the newspaper from Lestrade.

Lestrade smiled at him. "Have a safe flight, call me when you get there."

"Yes, Sir." Sherlock replied, with genuine sincerity in his voice.

Lestrade left the room, feeling himself suddenly overcome with emotion. Sherlock had never called him 'Sir' before.

As soon as Lestrade left the room, Sherlock's smile melted away. He moved to the side of the office to retrieve his coat and put it on slowly.

He clutched at his abdomen for a moment, legs weakening. He felt like he was so full he was going to be sick but at exactly the same time like he was so empty he was going to collapse.

He straightened himself up and took his hand away from himself, quickly stuffing the newspaper into his coat pocket. He didn't want to read what John had wrote about him, especially after last night because Sherlock knew he would deserve every word.

…

Sherlock parked his car outside of his parents home and took one long, deep breath with his hands clasping the steering wheel until he hopped out of the vehicle.

He knocked on the door a couple of times but there was no answer, he tried the handle and the door was open.

The minute Sherlock was inside the house he heard raised voices coming from the kitchen. Frowning, Sherlock walked slowly down the hallway and opened the door to see his mother in an argument with his brother.

Sherlock wasn't expecting Mycroft to be there, that made things a little more awkward.

Sherlock's mum stopped shouting when she saw him in the doorway.

"Sherlock!" She exclaimed, voice a mixture of happiness and surprise.

Mycroft turned around to face his brother. "Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

"Why are you fighting?" Sherlock asked, ignoring his brothers question.

"Oh, nothing dear." His mother informed him, "we were squabbling about the Christmas crackers. Come and give your mother a hug."

Still a little suspicious, Sherlock advanced forward and let his mother hug him, putting his arms around her a little stiffly.

When they broke apart, she put a hand on his cheek. "You get more handsome every time I see you."

"Where's Dad?" Sherlock asked, craning his head to see if he could see his father.

"He popped out to the shops," Mycroft informed him, "he didn't tell us why."

"Oh," said Sherlock, disappointed. His father was the only sane member of this family.

"Let's go and sit in the front room," his mother suggested, "I'll get us some drinks."

Sherlock and Mycroft were ushered into the front room whilst their mother fussed around with the kettle in the kitchen and Sherlock suddenly felt like a child again.

He sat down on the couch and Mycroft sat opposite, accidentally alone together.

"I thought your flight left on the 21st." Said Mycroft.

Sherlock grinned humourlessly. "I thought you knew everything."

Mycroft grinned back but it looked more like a sneer. "Yes, you delayed your flight for one dead body. That seems awfully kind of you, Sherlock."

"What can I say? I'm in the Christmas spirit."

Sherlock's mother then walked in with a tray of drinks and sat down in his dad's armchair opposite the sofa.

"You know, Sherlock. I was actually afraid you were going to leave without saying goodbye." She said.

_Well, you could have picked up the phone_. Sherlock bit back the retort and smiled at her. "Yes, well. I had some free time so I thought I'd come by. I'm following some advice from a...friend."

"A friend." Mycroft echoed sarcastically. "One of your work colleagues, only too eager to offer the great Sherlock Holmes advice."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother, he knew it was an empty threat. If Mycroft really wanted the world to know that Sherlock was in fact a shy, cynical workaholic rather than a confident, sexy top detective then he would have said something by now.

"And you followed said advice." Mycroft continued. "What has gotten into you?"

Sherlock prayed he would stop talking about John, the aching feeling in his stomach still hadn't left him. But what was he supposed to do? He'd messed up. He'd actually found something possibly more important than being a detective and he'd only managed on turning it against him.

John wanted him to go, he supposed at least this way he was giving John what he wanted no matter how much it hurt him.

"I'm acting strangely?" Sherlock scoffed, changing the subject. "What about you, since when do you do family visits?"

"Boys, please don't fight." Sherlock's mother pleaded. Sherlock was just about to open his mouth to say it was a bit rich coming from her when the door opened and his Dad entered holding a large box of Christmas crackers.

"Sherlock!" His dad exclaimed delightedly. "You're here."

"Yeah, I'm here." He said, standing up and walking over to his Dad, instantly hugging him.

He actually felt himself get a little emotional for the first time since he'd gotten there when his Dad hugged him back, the pain in his stomach lessened slightly.

When they broke apart, the moisture in his fathers eyes was matched by his own.

Sherlock looked down to see the box of crackers his father was holding. "Why do you have crackers?" He asked.

"Because those two wouldn't stop fighting about them." He gestured behind Sherlock to the rest of his family.

Sherlock swivelled to look at them, neither Mycroft nor his mother were looking at him.

"Wait, you mean you really were fighting over crackers?"

Sherlock's mother caught his eye and he could swear he saw her grinning at him.

The next few hours passed in relative comfort after the awkwardness seemed to melt away with the cracker issue.

Sherlock felt like he was a teenager again celebrating Christmas with his entire family. Except when Sherlock was a teenager, it was more likely he was up in his room doing chemistry experiments rather than actually interacting with anyone.

As he prepared to leave, his mother hugged him for longer than he was expecting, when she pulled away she had tears in her eyes.

"You call me as soon as you get there, you hear me, William?"

Sherlock smiled despite the use of his first name. "Yes, Mum." He said.

His father shook his hand warmly and then he and his wife both retreated into the house.

Sherlock wondered when he would next see them.

"So, America, then?" Mycroft commented.

"That's right."

"Never thought I'd see the day."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

The pair laughed slightly.

"You'll be a success in New York," Mycroft told him seriously after he'd sobered up. "I know you will."

Taken aback by the show of affection, Sherlock laughed again. "Touch wood." He said.

Mycroft's brow furrowed. ""Touch wood"? I didn't realise you'd turned superstitious."

"I'm not," Sherlock said slowly, realising what he had said.

The knot in his stomach returned.

…

Sherlock couldn't help feeling like he'd accomplished something when he opened the door to 221B that evening.

He tossed his coat to the side and walked into the sitting room, immediately stopping as he saw what was waiting for him in there.

The tree. The Christmas tree he'd put up on Sunday to surprise John.

He'd never see it.

Walking straight past the offending object, Sherlock walked into his bedroom and stripped quickly, crawling dejectedly into his bed and wrapping the covers around himself.

Generally, Sherlock's beliefs were steeped in fact and reality and he threw aside any notions of fate or consequence, but there were times when he couldn't help thinking that his life was ruled by a poetic irony.

He had so many friends in his life here and yet he had never felt more alone, he had waited years to get an opportunity like America but the minute it had presented itself he had resented it with everything he had, he avoided his family because of the horrific arguments they had and found them quibbling over crackers.

He'd changed everything about himself when he joined the Met. to appear less of a dick, yet all he'd done was become a bigger one.

He shivered, his bed noticeably cold after sleeping next to someone for the first time.

_The top detective, surrounded by friends and family and loving the holidays._

It was all a lie, it had always been a lie.

Sherlock had never stopped being the consulting detective, alone at Christmas.


	11. Day 11 - 24th December, 2014

John pulled a tray out of the oven and hissed at the heat seeping in through his oven gloves.

"It kind of negates the point of oven gloves." He murmured to himself, putting the tray down atop a wooden chopping board.

He gazed forlornly at all of the food left on the side for him to cook and prepare, he wished he could rope Sherlock into helping him like he had proposed, he was sure the detective would be good at that sort of thing.

He looked at his phone sitting on the side, wondering if he should call Sherlock before his flight, he wasn't sure how Sherlock felt about him anymore, especially after the other night.

He shook his head, there was no point in any of this, nothing would come from it.

He looked away from his phone and turned back to the food.

The door bell went and John immediately ran to it, hoping that Sherlock would be on the other side for some magical reason, but when he opened it he saw Sarah smiling at him and holding two shopping bags.

"Morning." She said.

"Morning," John replied, moving aside so she could walk through.

He forgot that Sarah had offered to help him get things ready for the next day, he watched her put things away in the kitchen and walked slowly back to her, realising he was going to have a harder time getting over Sherlock Holmes than he had thought.

Sarah smiled at him as she handed him a can of energy drink. "You'll need this." She said.

He grinned at her as he thanked her, glad at least he had a friend around.

…

Sherlock began the drive to Bristol Airport, the journey was going to take around 2 and a half hours, so Sherlock suspected he would be at the airport at around 9pm, and with the flight leaving at 10:30pm that wasn't so bad. He'd just get a coffee and some food to pass the time or something.

Normally, he would have pulled out some paperwork or case files but there were no more cases in England, it was a spooky feeling.

He looked out at the snow on the road illuminated by his headlights. He didn't like driving on the snow in the dark, you always heard about people losing control on the roads in winter, especially in London and especially in his job. The amount of paper work he'd had to sign for car accidents in this last month alone.

He supposed there was little point in worrying about it, the snow would be worse in America.

Sherlock felt the melancholy overwhelm him when he drove out of London.

He loved London, he adored London. He couldn't deny the massive part of him that didn't want to leave.

And the bore it was going to be to get to know his new home in New York in the way he knew this city.

Once he was out of the city, he looked forlornly at the disappearing lights in his wing mirror.

He turned the radio on, anything to try and distract himself, except almost every station was blaring out Christmas music that only served to bring back painful memories, somehow more painful than leaving his beloved city.

Sighing to himself, Sherlock turned off the radio and drove on in silence, the soft hum of the engine was the only sound that accompanied him.

…

When Sherlock arrived at the airport at the earlier time of 8:35pm, he spent a few minutes lazily driving around the car holding area to find a spot. They'd offered him a car in his new job but he had refused and decided to bring his own instead. It would cost a little more and probably wouldn't be as nice as the company car he'd get in his new agency, but at least it was his, and it would be a little bit of home.

Sherlock shook his head to himself. _You've got to stop thinking like that, this is going to be the opportunity of a life time._

Despite the fact he didn't want to move away so far, Sherlock had remembered having a good feeling about this job move, that was why he'd accepted the job in the first place.

But for a while, the last couple of weeks at least, he'd been looking at the whole thing with nothing but apprehension.

He parked the car and gave the key to the man, that was about as far as Sherlock's interest in the entire affair went, and he walked into the airport, pulling his scarf tighter around himself.

Sherlock grabbed a coffee and looked vaguely at the selection of sandwiches on offer before leaving it and walking to the departure lounge.

He sat down in the near empty lounge and perused the duty free catalogue for literally no reason whatsoever.

Sherlock despised being bored, and with no gun to shoot and no smiley face to shoot at, there was little else to do than read ridiculous airport magazines.

At 10:16pm precisely, however, the tanoy rang out with the information that Sherlock's flight had been delayed by two hours due to a snow storm brewing over the English channel.

Sherlock sighed out loud, startling the woman who sat across from him.

Sherlock looked down at his watch, the plane wouldn't be arriving until 12:30am. Christmas day. He frowned slightly, not particularly wanting to spend most of Christmas day sat inside an aeroplane.

Or the rest of Christmas Eve sat in a departure lounge, for that matter.

He smiled slightly at himself. _You used to be so cynical, what happened to you?_

Sherlock glimpsed a husband and wife asleep in two chairs across the room, leaning against each other.

He closed his eyes, attempting to get a little sleep himself, after a few minutes however, he realised it wasn't going to happen and opened his eyes again.

Glancing around the boring, white room, he wished he'd brought something to read.

The next half an hour passed, giving Sherlock the increasing urge to murder someone for the amusement.

He sighed again and shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. He opened his coat and stuffed his hands into his pocket, feeling the crackling of stiff paper brush against his hand.

Confused, Sherlock pulled out the object and found himself holding the latest issue of the 'Westminster Herald', he must not have taken it out of his coat pocket from last night.

Sherlock's breath stopped for a moment as he willed himself to calm down. There was no point to any of this, he was about to start a new life, all he was doing was hurting himself over a man who didn't want to see him anyway.

He'd messed up, and now it was time to move on, for both their sakes.

With that thought in his mind, he opened the paper and began to read.

He'd never read the 'Westminster Herald' before, it seemed to be semi-political and semi-trivial but in such a way that it worked.

Sherlock skimmed over an article about some minor celebrity who'd turned on the Christmas lights and found the coverage of an incident the Met. Had dealt with a few months ago about a particularly gruesome murder in Chester. He saw Lestrade's name mentioned a few times and smiled to himself.

He turned the page and saw his own face staring back at him, he nearly jumped.

He peered down at the two-page spread dedicated to him for a second before immediately closing the paper.

He took a deep breath and admonished himself. He couldn't hide from one article for the rest of his life, it hadn't been the first time a reporter had said bad things about him.

But those reporters hadn't known him, they hadn't meant as much as...

Sherlock opened the paper again and lingered on the words _'written by John Watson'_ for longer than he should have.

He felt the pull in his stomach that was becoming all too familiar return and swallowed once. Knowing that if he allowed himself only one moment to truly feel all the hurt that was inside him, he might actually lose himself to it and that wasn't an option for him.

He knew he deserved every word of what John had written, there was no point in avoiding it; he began to read.

The majority of the article was the coverage of his honouring and the Q and A between Sherlock and John, Sherlock noticed immediately that John hadn't printed anything he had asked him not to print, but he supposed it was less about him and more about John's professional integrity.

Sherlock sorely wished that John were beside him now, for a majority of reasons but mainly to let him know that the quality of his writing was truly impressive.

He couldn't believe he'd known John for over a week and hadn't read a single word he'd ever written, he suddenly felt like such an arsehole, he suddenly wanted John to start being mean to him.

Sherlock continued reading, mesmerised, until he came across the final paragraph which he read slowly:

_Upon meeting him, I can say that Sherlock Holmes is an intriguing man. Although somewhat trapped within his role of detective, having to make questionable choices for the greater good. He appeared to me as very reserved, very guarded and very self-sufficient and for that reason, there is only one judgement I can make, as a journalist, on Sherlock Holmes. And that is that he is a treasure. And I can only hope that New York will love him as much as England does; just the way he is._

Sherlock stared at the words for a long time. _Just the way he is._

Suddenly, they became the only words that mattered. Could it possibly be true? That John still wrote these things, still cared for him that way, despite all that had happened between them? Despite all of his flaws.

He suddenly realised the reason he'd had such apprehensions about America, it was because there were things in London that were much more important than the things America could offer him.

John Watson was much more important.

He looked at the words again. _Just the way he is._

He quickly stuffed the paper in his pocket again and left the departure lounge.

Well aware that when he left, he couldn't go back.


	12. Day 12 - 25th December, 2014

Christmas Day

 

John turned the volume up on his speakers while Sarah opened the door to his mother and his sister.

"Hey, Merry Christmas!" His mother screeched, zipping across the room and pulling him into a hug.

"Merry Christmas, mum." John replied, struggling to breath. He could hear Sarah laughing behind him.

When his mother finally let him go she stroked him on the cheek. "I read your article, darling. It was wonderful. You said you might get a promotion?"

"Yes." Sarah answered for him. "He deserves it."

His mother smiled lovingly at him. "Your dad would be proud."

She all but whispered.

"I know." He whispered back.

"Hey, bro." Said Harry, looping around her mother to give John a hug.

"Hey," he greeted, hugging her warmly. When they broke apart, John glanced behind her. "Oh, no Clara?"

"No." Said Harry, looking a little sullen. "But forget about that," she said, brightening. "How's your love life going?"

"Err..." Began John, he had been in quite high spirits considering it was Christmas day and his party was going off without a hitch, he didn't need to be reminded of...certain things.

Harry laughed. "That good, huh?" She asked sarcastically and John rolled his eyes.

"Shut your mouth and open your present, bitch. I went to a lot of trouble finding this."

She nudged him playfully before following him to the tree, she looked around herself, taking note of the various aunts and uncles around them as well as a few unfamiliar faces.

"I don't know like, half these people." She pointed out.

"Neither do I." John admitted. "I think they're people mum's trying to set me up with."

"Well, she's nothing if not persistent."

"This is true."

"What about her?" Asked Harry, inclining her head to Sarah who was talking to John's cousin across the room. "She's cute."

"Yeah, she is. But unfortunately..."

"You're a giant flaming homosexual."

John nodded. "Pretty much."

Harry took a deep breath. "I've taught you well." She said proudly.

John couldn't help laughing.

"Oh, here come the cavalry." Harry warned.

"John!" Came his mother's shrill voice from across the room. "Come over here and meet Phillis!"

"Yeah, John. Come and meet Phillis!" Harry mocked.

John subtly gave her the middle finger whilst walking over to his mother, leaving his sister snorting behind him.

"Mum." John greeted, reaching her.

"John, this is Phillis Greene, Margaret's daughter." She said, gesturing to a woman with an unfortunate nose standing beside her. "Phillis, this is my son John. He's a reporter."

_Journalist._

"Nice to meet you." She said, smiling and extending her hand.

John knew this was going to happen. It had happened every time his family got together. His mother would always pull some random girl from nowhere and would expect a proposal by the end of the night.

However, John went along with it as he had always done. Because smiling at a girl for five seconds was easier than having a 20 minute lecture on how he 'didn't want to be alone forever.'

"Nice to meet you, too." John smiled, shaking her hand warmly. "If you'll excuse me, I have a turkey to check on."

He watched his mother's smile drop as he walked to the kitchen.

"Really, John!" His mother admonished from behind him.

"Do you want me to burn the turkey?" He asked a little cheekily.

"John, I wish you would take more interest in the girls I go out of my way to introduce you to, you don't want to be alone forever."

Oh, so apparently the smiles and the lectures were coming together now.

"No, mum, I don't want to be alone forever."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

John felt a wave of unease go over him as he was forcibly reminded of how he'd told Sherlock to go to America, and how he might have stayed if John had at least tried to fight for what they had instead of letting it go.

"I don't know." He said quietly to his mother.

"John, love. Is something the matter?" She asked, sounding concerned. "You've gone pale."

_Don't do this._ He told himself. _It's Christmas day and you have a room full of people out there. Sherlock's certainly not as upset as you. In fact, he's in America right now._

…

Sherlock was stuck in traffic on his way back to London. He'd began to travel back late last night after he'd saved his car from being loaded onto a plane.

When it got to the early hours of the morning, though, the caffeine in his system had worn off and he was forced to pull into a service station. He didn't trust snowy roads, there was no point turning up to John half-dead because he'd skidded and driven into a tree.

He'd planned to get a few hours sleep, refill on the coffee and carry on for London but, being an idiot, had accidentally woken up at 10am, cursed loudly at the clock on his dashboard and sped out of the service station and back onto the motorway.

He'd only had about 100 miles to drive by then, and that's when the traffic had struck, leaving Sherlock Holmes perpetually motionless on one of the busiest roads in the country.

He looked at the clock on his dash again, it was nearing 2pm in the afternoon. He swore again, loudly, surprising himself as he wasn't usually one for road rage.

Frustrated, and realising he shouldn't be doing it, he pulled his phone out to call John, tell him he was trying to get back but the Fates were working against him. He pushed the unlock button on the top of his phone and the usual lock screen page flashed with a little warning.

_Warning_

_you have (3%) battery remaining_

"What?" Exclaimed Sherlock. "I do not have 3% battery remaining!" He quickly unlocked his phone and watched it die before his eyes.

"What?" He repeated. "No, no, don't do that!" He stuffed the phone back into his coat pocket. "Bloody technology." He cursed quietly, resting his hands on the steering wheel again.

The traffic began to lighten up and Sherlock finally began to make headway when he saw a whisper of smoke rise from his bonnet.

"Please be steam." He murmured to himself.

It wasn't steam.

Sherlock stared at his burning engine on the side of the road with his arms crossed, the noise of cars deafening him as they whizzed past.

"Come on," he said, unsure who he was talking to. "It's Christmas."

He pulled his coat tighter around himself as it began to snow lightly around him, he grimaced as he felt the flakes melting in his hair.

The AA turned up around 15 minutes later.

"Unlucky timing." The mechanic said when he hopped out of his van.

"You wouldn't believe the half of it." Sherlock told him.

The two mechanics began to examine his engine, Sherlock looked out across the motorway, the tops of the cars slowly turning white with snow.

"Know much about cars?" One of the mechanics asked, grabbing Sherlock's attention.

"Err, no." Sherlock admitted, turning back to them. "What's wrong with it?"

"Engine overheated." He replied.

Sherlock frowned. "What, in the snow?" He quickly did the physics in his mind. "Oh, the snow casing. Right, I understand. Can you fix it?"

"Not here." The other one said. "We'll have to tow it back to the garage, do you wanna hop in the cab?"

Sherlock looked in the direction towards London.

"No," he said, "I have something important I need to do."

"More important than getting your car fixed?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Okay, fine. Whatever you like, what are you going to do?"

"Just, take it back with you, I'll figure something out."

The two men kept giving him weird looks while they attached his car to their truck and towed it away, leaving Sherlock on the side of the road.

Sherlock looked around himself, the snow was getting heavier now. He waited by the side of the road for ten minutes before he saw an empty cab go by.

"Hey!" He called out. "Stop!"

Seeing him, the cab driver pulled up right in front of him, steering through a melted puddle of snow that cascaded over Sherlock, drenching him.

He sighed heavily.

…

Harry hesitated before putting the turkey in her mouth. "Should I be eating this?" She asked sceptically.

"Well, it's breast. You should be fine with it." John replied coolly, taking a sip of wine.

"John!" His mother smacked him lightly whilst Sarah snickered into her glass.

"This is lovely, John." She said when she'd finished laughing.

"Yes, lovely, John." An uncle commented.

The table erupted into various compliments and John closed his eyes for a moment.

"Oh," began Phillis from across the table, seated with her mother, "I think John deserves a toast for his amazing article on the great Sherlock Holmes!"

"Yes, here here!" His mother called out, and everyone applauded him.

John smiled but felt his heart begin to race.

"Who wants another drink?" He said over the din. "I'll go and get the champagne."

He stood and left the table swiftly. Sarah watched him go with concern and stood up too, saying she was going to see if John needed any help.

John pulled the bottle out of the fridge as Sarah came up next to him.

"Hey," she said softly, nudging him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he nodded, taking a deep breath. "I'm fine. There's no point in being upset, Sherlock's in New York right now, he's probably forgotten all about me. He's probably in his new flat, relaxing in comfort."

…

Sherlock did his best to wring out his scarf and shake the water out of his damp curls before he climbed into the cab.

"You look like you're having a good day." The cabbie said sarcastically as Sherlock grimaced at his wet clothes.

"Yeah, tell me about it." Sherlock mumbled.

"You're lucky I was on the road, I don't usually come down here."

"Trust me, right now, you're my Christmas angel."

The cabbie grinned. "Where to mate?" He asked.

"London, 221B Baker Street."

"Oh, I was just headed to London."

"How far away are we?"

"About 25 miles or so, shouldn't take more than an hour." He said, before he set off. Sherlock peeled up a wet sleeve and looked at his thankfully working watch. It was nearly 5pm.

When they reached 221B, Sherlock's watch read 5:54pm, as he climbed out of the cab he thanked the driver profusely again.

He dug his wallet out of his back pocket and handed the cabbie a handful of notes. "Here, keep the change. And thanks again."

"Much obliged, Sir." The cabbie nodded before driving away.

Sherlock opened the door and ran up the steps, taking them two at a time. He planned to get a change of clothes, grab some cash and then head straight for John's.

He hurried into his living room and stopped.

Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Irene and Molly were all seated around the table with turkey in front of them, staring at him.

"Oh." Said Sherlock, realising then just how out of breath he was. "Hi."

"Sherlock, what happened to you? You look like you've been dragged backwards through a hedge!"

"Pretty much," Sherlock nodded, trying to catch his breath. "Sorry for bothering you, go back to your dinner, I've got to go." He turned away.

"Wait," Lestrade called after him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Sherlock stopped and, remembering John's words, and turned back to them.

"You know what," he began, "I have insane feelings for John Watson that I can't quite understand and I've struggled all the way back to London to beg him to take me back."

The faces that greeted him were priceless.

"John Watson?" Irene said, forehead creased. "The journalist?"

Sherlock grinned. "He's so much more than a journalist. He's a treasure."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the room.

All four of the dinner guests turned to each other, wondering exactly what had just happened.

Until they heard noise on the stairs again and turned as Sherlock stuck his head through the door. "Oh, and by the way, I hate New York." He said quickly before leaving again.

When he was outside, he realised that he had no money left to call a cab.

Shaking his head, he calculated the quickest possible route to John's flat and made a run for it.

As Sherlock turned a corner, a car came out of nowhere and for a split second he thought the car was going to hit him but right at the last second it careened to the side, honking it's horn loudly, and driving straight through a puddle that splattered Sherlock. Again.

He hummed out a cute little tune of complete and utter soul destroying, murderous rage before breaking into a sprint again, slipping slightly in the snow.

When he came up to John's door, he actually couldn't believe he was really there.

It seemed like a surreal moment as he stared at it.

In that moment, Sherlock suddenly realised how nervous he actually was, he felt his heart rate increasing and berated himself.

Taking a few, slow breaths he reached out and rang the door bell. There was no answer and Sherlock couldn't believe that John would be out, especially on Christmas day.

Maybe it was a sign? Maybe someone had tried to stop him getting here for a reason?

He suddenly shook his head at himself. He was still Sherlock Holmes, and he didn't necessarily believe in fate.

He reached a hand out and tried the door again, it was open, John was definitely in.

He opened the door and jogged quickly up the steps.

Inside the flat, John was handing out nibbles to people and the music was loud and a lot of people were getting tipsy. Sarah passed John some Champagne and his mother had begun asking her how she and John met when the entire party turned around in shock.

Confused, John turned to see what everyone was staring at and he nearly dropped his glass.

Standing in the doorway was a very bedraggled Sherlock Holmes, looking a little wide-eyed.

"Oh, I forgot about this." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock?" Began John, coming forward, "what happened to you?" He asked, shocked, taking in Sherlock's wet clothes, heavy breathing and damp, slightly frizzing hair.

He gestured behind him. "I...ran." He said a little stupidly, hand falling uselessly to his side. Seeing John had made his brain a little slower than usual.

"What are you doing here?" Asked John slowly, unable to comprehend that Sherlock was stood in his living room when he should have been in America.

"Umm," began Sherlock, feeling suddenly awkward with all the people around him, he then heard the music become quieter and that made things even worse.

He quickly shook it off, it didn't matter anymore.

"I came to say that I'm sorry." Sherlock admitted. "I'm sorry for acting like an arrogant prick just to satisfy everyone else when the only persons approval I ever really wanted was yours."

Sherlock saw John's face go lax and carried on before he regretted it. "I've never met anyone like you, John. And I mean, someone that tried to get to know me. I thought you were only speaking to me the way you did because you were trying to get information for your article, but you didn't print any of the stuff we talked about when we weren't being...professional. The stuff that made me realise that, despite the fact I've only known you for 12 days, you've been closer to me than anyone ever has. And you made me understand things about myself, and about the world that I'd never understood before." He laughed slightly. "You made me not want to be alone at Christmas. For the first time. But more than that," he felt moisture gather in his eyes. He cursed himself. "I'm sorry for making you feel like you weren't good enough," his voice cracked. "Because you've influenced every single decision I've made since I met you. You became the voice in my head, making me think twice about being arrogant or doing superstitious crap I don't even believe in." He found himself laughing slightly at his situation, he gestured at himself. "I've given up everything, because I realised you were the most important thing." Sherlock finished talking, taking in a slow breath. He knew every eye in the room was on him but all he could see was John placing down his glass and walking slowly towards him.

"You missed a flight to America to tell me you're sorry?" He asked lightly, swallowing.

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah, pretty much. But," he fished John's article out of his pocket, grimacing when he saw that it was slightly damp. "Um, I saw your article. I saw what you wrote about me and it made me realise that, despite everything I said, despite everything I did, you still...love me, just the way I am."

Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation, he watched as John's eyes filled with tears and a small, shy smile broke out across his lips.

"You never have to hide around me, Sherlock. You never have." A tear slipped down John's cheek. "I'm sorry too, for what happened. And I understand. I get it, I get why you had to pretend, but you don't have to do that with me. The slightly cynical, shy, sweet, stubborn Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, that's who you are. And I love you, I do."

Sherlock let out a shocked sigh of relief. "I love you, I love you too, John Watson." He breathed out. "I'm not going to America," he could feel his own tears pricking at his eyes again. "It's not worth losing you, and it's not worth losing me, either."

John charged at Sherlock across the room and captured his mouth in a kiss. Instinctively, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and kissed him back. Feeling all at once completely comfortable and yet like everything was completely different at the same time.

John sighed ever so softly, he thought he'd never get to have this feeling again, this feeling of complete and utter contentment. Sherlock Holmes even had a smell that John instantly recognised, he couldn't believe he'd never noticed it before, he couldn't believe that he hadn't noticed it was gone.

When Sherlock finally pulled away, he looked at John and felt the ever present knot in his stomach unravel completely. He noticed the moisture teasing the contours of John's face.

"Oh, sorry," he said quietly, wiping away the liquid with his fingers. "I'm wet."

"Did I say I cared?" John said, laughing, running his hand through Sherlock's damp curls. "I'm just glad you're here."

"So am I." Sherlock replied through a small smile.

The pair stood like that, wrapped in each other and simply looking into the other's eyes, like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. It was.

Sherlock studied John's hazel-coloured orbs for a moment, feeling like he'd never known a pair of eyes better in his life.

"Merry Christmas, John." Sherlock said softly.

John smiled. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." He replied. "And a happy new year."

Sherlock smiled, too. "A new year," he echoed, eyes alight. "I like the sound of that."

John laughed before pulling Sherlock down into another kiss.

The group of people around them suddenly erupted into applause and cheer, John would have felt like he was in the middle of a cheesy Christmas film if everything wasn't so completely perfect in that moment. Sherlock laughed against John's lips as he detected a scent of mistletoe in the air.

THE END


End file.
